


The  King of New Orleans

by traveller



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-06
Updated: 2005-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-22 21:29:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 49,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/traveller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>They panhandle and busk around the Quarter all afternoon and well into the night, navigating the crowds easily with their narrow shoulders.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The  King of New Orleans

**Author's Note:**

> I think I'm known best in fandom for two things: being a sort of terrible person, and this story.
> 
> there are a lot of edits I'd make if I was doing it over (someday maybe I will), but this is the original recipe, as posted in April through June 2005.

_April 2001_

They panhandle and busk around the Quarter all afternoon and well into the night, navigating the crowds easily with their narrow shoulders. The littlest one he has nicknamed Baby Doll, and not just for his age or his size. The kid has perfect skin, enormous blue eyes, looks like he's made of china but it's an illusion all the way. Viggo catches Baby Doll picking pockets in the Café Du Monde, manages three frames of the moment when those nimble fingers draw a fat wallet out of an unsuspecting jacket.

If Baby Doll knows he's being watched, he doesn't let on; Viggo follows him as he repeats the process, twice in the takeout line, once when a clutch of tourists crowded around a map beckon him over for directions. Baby Doll has a nasal note of somewhere else in his soft drawl; he shuffles like a teenager when he walks. He could be any tourist, he could be any local kid, but no. You can see it in his eyes, and his eyes are everywhere all the time, and sometimes when Viggo presses the shutter he is sure Baby Doll is looking back.

 _click_.

He calls her Princess because of the regal set of her shoulders; because of the rhinestone tiara she wears atop her tangled dark hair. Her small round breasts show through the gauzy dress she wears over ratty bellbottom jeans, her wrists clash and jangle with bracelets and charms. She sings and she steals, both exquisitely, but never much, no. She draws eyes every time she moves, just a few verses is all she needs to be showered with money, flowers, beads.

She will dance for any drummer, she will shimmy up to some drunken tourist and sway against him, her hands all over him and not unwelcome. She brushes their cheeks with those lush lips and Viggo doesn't know how she does it, he can't capture it on film, but later when they regroup down by the river she'll pull out of her pockets watches, rings, money clips, once even a man's gold crucifix. Baby Doll had laughed and laughed at her when she bit the thing and pronounced it real.

 _click_.

When the two guys are busking they keep up a bawdy patter, sliding from jokes to blues and back again seamlessly. Viggo doesn't judge his subjects, but he can't help but wonder why neither of them are working in the clubs, why the pair of them together haven't made it big. They're talented, they're funny, they work the crowds like old time vaudevillians, and the guitar case has more paper than silver in it by the end of each night.

The guitar player with the tangle of gorse and heather in his voice, he's older, and when he pulls his watch cap down over his ears it makes the lines around his eyes look deeper. The harmonica player has wide hands and an easy laugh, has sloppy sideburns and a busted nose. He can't sit still.

They never tell the same joke twice, improvising and riffing and playing with the crowds, but they always end the same, on a classic note. "Say good night, Gracie," the guitar player says. "Good night, Gracie," the harmonica player parrots, his falsetto never failing to bring giggles from the onlookers.

George and Gracie. They only kiss when nobody's looking, when they are safely offstage.

 _click_.

:::

Almost three weeks in New Orleans, and Viggo is ready to drop from following the schedule of the gang - out on the street around two pm, in constant motion until dawn. He doesn't know where they sleep, once the sun comes up they disappear, so he'll go to his hotel, scrape a couple hours sleep for himself before plunging anew into the sea of humanity in the _Vieux Carré_ streets.

They know he's there now, he's got at least a half dozen frames of Baby Doll's middle finger, and yesterday he'd gotten too close to George and Gracie while they worked the tourists outside St. Louis cathedral. Gracie'd caught his eye; called him a fucking cunt and the pair had disappeared for hours.

He hasn't seen Princess in two days, and the last time he saw the boys was in the evening, huddled under a balcony on Royal Street. They were sharing a clove cigarette, the smell sharp and heavy in the humid air, heads together, whispering. Viggo had breathed slow and shot fast, caught the moment when Gracie pressed the filter to Baby's lips, caught the moment when the curl of smoke drifted up from George's mouth to his nostril. When they leaned in, hands and mouths all crashing together before they parted, he'd turned away.

There are other bands of gypsies, other kids with sad eyes and rucksacks and second-hand guitars, and Viggo shoots them too, but it's not the same. He's in love with the four from the steps, with the _idea_ of them, with the idea that they somehow seem to thrive at this life.

He takes one last pass along the promenade, on the far side of the train tracks by Jackson Square. The purple night is turning to pink at the edges, and the Mississippi laps at the foot of the steps. They'll come to the steps, they always do, to divide up their bounty, to check on each other, before melting away into the dawn. He stops to light his own cigarette, leaves his camera slung over his shoulder, cupping his hand around the flame. When he looks up, he bites down on the filter, stumbles and coughs.

The boy is perched on one of the stone pillars at the foot of the steps, impossibly yet perfectly balanced. The rising sun gilds his form, the long line of his neck, the curve of his shaved head. He has wings, Viggo thinks stupidly; blinks and squints and he _does_ , tattooed with amazing detail on his back and shoulders. The illusion is dizzying.

Viggo shifts his camera around, raises it and brings the boy into focus; as he does, the boy turns his head and he can't have known Viggo was there, it's impossible. The boy smiles. Viggo presses the shutter.

Nothing happens.

It takes no more than two minutes, to pat his pockets down for a fresh roll of film, to rewind the old and load the new. He has his eyes off the steps for two minutes. Two minutes. A freight train rumbles behind him, car after car after car. He advances to the first frame and looks back down the steps. The boy is gone.

:::

Viggo sleeps all day and dreams of night. He dreams of the boy, the boy from the steps is standing framed in the open balcony doors of Viggo's hotel room. When he moves there is the faint sound of beating wings, when he moves the stars wheel and spin above, when he kisses Viggo's cheek it feels so cold that it burns.

When he wakes the sun is setting over the river. The French doors are closed.

:::

The boy slides into the chair on the other side of the table at River's Edge and smiles brightly. "Hullo."

Viggo drops his spoon with a clatter. No one notices amid the racket of the dinner crowd, the shouts and the noise from the street.

"You're the photographer," the boy goes on, and his voice is husky, thickly English. He doesn't ask, he states, but he is still smiling. "You've been disturbing the peace."

"I'm sorry," Viggo says. It's the first thing that comes out.

The boy's dark eyes are smudged with even darker makeup; his clothes are clean. A white t-shirt, a ragged red jacket that could easily have once been a Beefeater uniform. Viggo wonders where he got it. A vintage shop, maybe.

"I'm sorry," Viggo repeats, "I'm... it's for a book."

The boy puts his elbows on the table, props his chin on one fist. The index finger of his right hand is ringed with silver. "And will you pay them for the pictures? The pictures you put in your book, will you pay the children for using their faces to tell your stories?"

Viggo knows his publisher would never agree to it, but he says yes anyway. The boy tilts his head.

"Don't promise what you can't deliver." The boy smiles anyway. "You can buy me dinner, how's that?"

Viggo laughs. This kid is a hustler just like all the rest, supernatural beauty notwithstanding. He grins, and picks up his spoon again. "Sure, if you'll tell me your name."

He seems to consider this very carefully, all the while watching Viggo with that unnerving steadiness. He reaches across the table then, and helps himself to Viggo's wineglass. When he puts it down, his lips are stained blood red. He wipes his mouth with the side of his hand.

"My name is Orlando."

:::

Orlando orders catfish and a bowl of andouille gumbo, asks for a bottle of burgundy. Viggo raises his eyebrows but says nothing when he realizes that Orlando has ordered the cheapest things on the menu; he is a bit ashamed that he expected it to be the other way around.

"How long have you been-" _homeless_ "-in New Orleans?" he asks. Ridiculous small talk. He refills his glass from Orlando's bottle.

"A long time." Orlando takes a heaping spoonful of gumbo and chews with his mouth partly open. He fumbles his napkin into his lap, an obvious afterthought. "I was twenty... four, I think. Twenty-four? Yeah."

"And how old are you now?" Viggo pushes his plate away, leans back.

"Older." Orlando winks, and shovels more gumbo into his mouth.

Viggo watches in silence while his own meal grows cold.

:::

The nightlife is just starting to swing, music pouring out of each open door as they walk along the crowded banquettes. Orlando seems to be leading and the people move out of his way without appearing to see him; he takes long strides, his hands in his pockets and the tails of his red coat flowing out behind him. On closer inspection it's not like the Royal Guards' at all: Viggo is no expert, but it looks very old, more like a museum piece than something a gutter punk would own.

They stop on a corner and he reaches for the sleeve before he can stop himself; Orlando turns and smiles at him. Viggo pulls his hand back and shivers despite the heat.

"Come on," Orlando says with a jerk of his head. "I want to talk to you someplace quiet."

Someplace quiet turns out to be a hole in the wall on a shady block of Royal Street, far enough down that it's nearly quiet. A bell rings when they push the door open, and again when the spring on the door brings it slamming closed. The bartender laughs out loud when he sees Orlando, jiggles his four chins like some Acadian Jabba the Hut. "Well, sha. If it ain't the King of New Orleans."

Orlando bows with an elaborate flourish. "Jean-Paul. A bottle of your blackest, if you please."

The tables look to be barely standing, stained and pitted with cigarette burns - the chairs aren't in much better shape. Orlando chooses one at the back, away from the handful of patrons. He flops into a chair; it creaks but holds him. Viggo lowers himself more carefully, lets out a slow breath when the thing doesn't collapse. Okay. Okay.

Jean-Paul rolls over to the table, thunks down a label-less bottle and a pair of spotty glasses. "Who's payin', your highness?"

Orlando nods at Viggo. "He is."

"You is?"

"I is. Am. I am." Viggo reaches for his wallet, but the big man stops him.

"When you're done, when you're done." Jean-Paul waves his hand. "Be careful what you say yes to, _m'sieur_. First a bottle of rum, next thing... shit. You don't know where it could end."

Orlando narrows his eyes, flicks his ringed finger at the bartender. " _Tais toi, Petit-Jean_. Get on back to your business."

Jean-Paul smiles, palms facing up and out. "Your wish, highness. I's just sayin."

Orlando shrugs, yanks the stopper out of the bottle. "Right. Whatever."

He splashes both glasses full and shoves one across the table; it sloshes a bit against Viggo's fingers and burns cold. The rum is so heavy and sharp that Viggo's eyes water with the first sip. Orlando swallows half the glass in one go, refills and leans back.

"Right," he repeats. "That's done."

Viggo pats his pockets, finds his cigarettes and his lighter. When he offers a butt to Orlando he's met with a shrug, but when he starts to pull the pack back Orlando reaches out, deftly snags the cigarette. He holds Viggo's hand steady when Viggo lights it. His fingers are warm.

"What is all this about?" Viggo asks. He settles back as well, picks up his glass with his free hand. He's dizzy again, the smoke, the rum. He wants to touch Orlando's face, flexes his fingers around the shot glass. The jukebox is playing Robert Johnson through crackling speakers.

_I went to the crossroad... fell down on my knees. I went to the crossroad... fell down on my knees._

Orlando flicks ash on the floor. "You want your story, your pictures. I want something in return. Three things, actually."

"Money."

"No. Yes, a little. A little bit for each of the children."

"All of them?" Viggo shakes his head, drags on his cigarette. "I can't manage that, I'm sorry."

"For mine. For little Elijah, for Dom and Billy, for lovely Livvie." Orlando picks a piece of tobacco off his lip, sips his rum again. "Seven hundred. Ahhhhh. Seven hundred twenty-nine dollars. Divided four ways. Yes or no." He throws back the rest of the drink, thuds the glass to the table.

Viggo calculates. It _is_ just a little bit, it's barely a dent in his advance, and he's not exactly in the poorhouse anyway. He nods. "Done. Yes." He drinks. Orlando smiles.

"Brilliant. All right. So it is agreed, first: the children will share their stories with you for your book, in return for the sum of seven hundred twenty-nine dollars, divided four ways. You can take as many pictures as you like and they'll not stop you." Orlando helps himself to a second cigarette, lights it off the butt of the first.

Viggo frowns. "It's not the same if they know I'm there. I don't want poses. I want the truth."

"And you'll get it." Orlando refills the glasses again. "Do you trust me?"

"No." Viggo feels his lips twitch with amusement. "Not yet."

Orlando's laugh rings with delight. "That's fair, then. Listen. You'll get much farther with all the children if mine trust you. They'll accept you. You'll get pictures you never imagined. You can sit with them on the steps and listen to their stories in the mornings. And the children won't mislead you in any way," Orlando concludes. "I'll have their word on it."

Viggo swirls the rum in his glass. "And what else? You said three things, the money is only one."

Orlando lifts his own glass to his lips. "That you never photograph me. Never." There is heat, almost anger in the word. "And that you never try to find me by day. That's two and three. That's all."

The jukebox screeches, a burst of shrill feedback, and stops. "Goddammit," Jean-Paul swears, from across the room but it sounds impossibly distant. Viggo feels the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, remembering the warning. Orlando's eyes are bright in the haze.

"Yes or no," he prompts.

"Yes. Done."

"Done."

They drink again, their glasses hitting the table in synchrony. The jukebox starts again where it stopped.

:::

"Fucking hell," rumbles the voice in his ear. "You're rat-arsed drunk, aren't you?"

Viggo's cheek scratches against rough wool; he grips Orlando's hips to steady himself. "'M fine. You're fine. How are you fine?" The street curves away from his feet and he stumbles. Orlando catches him under the arms.

"Maybe I've had more practice," Orlando answers. "Come on, one foot in front of the other. Hup-two."

Viggo leans on Orlando heavily, eyes on the curve of his neck, on the shell of his ear. The city is spinning around him, the sky a kaleidoscope of purple and white. He stumbles again. "You're beautiful," he mumbles. "I said yes because you're beautiful."

Orlando snorts. Viggo tightens his arm around the boy's waist. He is content, now, to be led.

The terrain changes suddenly, they go up and then down and Viggo squints to focus, stares at his feet. They are walking on the train tracks, and the river is to his right, but the river curves, and -

"I don't know where I am," he says, and stops. Orlando keeps walking; Viggo sways and nearly goes down.

"Bloody - lightweight - Americans."

Viggo shakes his head. "No. I'm fine." This isn't the way to his hotel. The river is going the wrong way. He inhales the scent of the river, of rum and sweat and night. "I just don't know where..."

"You're with me." Orlando hoists Viggo's arm over his shoulder again. "Now march."

His boots clonk heavily against the railroad ties with every unsteady step. He hasn't been this fucking hammered in he doesn't know how long, blind drunk, yeah. If he closes his left eye things don't spin quite so fast. Orlando's body is warm and solid next to his. He puts one foot in front of the other.

And then he hears bells.

"This way," Orlando says, tugs Viggo a little to the right, to the space between the two tracks. "Easy... right... Stop."

Bells and whistles.

Viggo opens his left eye.

The trains blow past on both sides, and Viggo knows that they can't be going that fast but it feels like they're both going a thousand miles an hour, it feels like the trains are stopped and _they're_ the ones moving at that terrifying speed, the ground rushing away beneath their feet and all he can do is hold on to Orlando, hold on hold on hold on and-

"We're here."

Viggo blinks. The tracks are empty except for a caboose light in the distance. Orlando shifts his arm around Viggo's back, points to a shadowed building just up the levee.

"Where's here?"

Orlando grins. "Wherever you are."

:::

It's a warehouse, and warehouses aren't known for their decor; Viggo thinks he sees a rat scuttle away at the sound of their footsteps. The building is smaller on the inside than it looks from without, with a row of what once must have been offices along the near wall.

One doorway has a glittering beaded curtain hanging there, the other has a woolen blanket, the third nothing but darkness to hide its secrets. Viggo leans heavily on Orlando's shoulder and has the sudden sickening feeling that he is in far, far too deep. The room spins.

"Easy, mate," Orlando says, his lips soft and just there against Viggo's ear. "I'm putting you to bed, and the children will look after you. We agreed, remember?"

Viggo nods. A fragment of conversation from the bar. _Stay with them, if you like. You're serious? Always. What about- Don't worry. I'll take care of it._

The bead curtain parts with a clatter. "Princess." Viggo smiles.

She looks from Viggo to Orlando and back, hands on her hips. The dress she wears is even more diaphanous than her usual, and Viggo looks away, feeling drunkenly ashamed. The girl is half his age. And so is the boy he's leaning on. He stiffens, and Orlando steps away.

They whisper, her furious and him unyielding; Viggo casts about for someplace to sit and there's some busted-looking armchairs around a half-barrel with a flickering fire. He is pretty sure he can make it the twenty? thirty? feet under his own steam, but Orlando catches his elbow.

"Ah ah, no. Come on, Viggo." Orlando purrs over the syllables; Viggo shivers. "Livvie's going to stay the night, isn't she? And she's going to see to it you're looked after, isn't she?"

"What the fuck ever," she snaps. She rakes a hand through her hair. "Orlando-"

"No."

"Fine."

"Excellent." Orlando crooks his finger at her, and she shakes her head but she comes. He brushes his lips across her cheek. "And thank-you."

"Whatever." Her sandals slap the concrete as she goes.

Viggo feels exhausted suddenly, his shoulders heavy, his eyelids even more so. He feels like a child, shepherded around by Orlando, and he feels like a fool, but- "I'm not afraid," he says out loud.

Orlando doesn't answer, tugs him through the doorway with the blanket; for a moment he is disoriented again, caught in the heavy folds of wool. Then breath again, cool air. A candle flickers on a low table; there is a pair of mattresses stacked on the floor, made up quite cozily. Sheets and everything. He shakes his head.

"What's real?"

"Everything," Orlando answers, and presses his mouth to Viggo's.

The kiss is sour with alcohol and salty with sweat; Viggo cups the back of Orlando's head and it's just like the trains, the room is spinning one way and they're spinning in the opposite direction, too fast, too fast. Orlando's tongue is hot and slick in Viggo's mouth, and Viggo makes a soft, embarrassing noise when Orlando cups him through his jeans. He rocks into it, and Orlando pulls back, licks hard over Viggo's lower lip.

"I-"

"Shh." Orlando presses his thumb to Viggo's mouth. "Not now, it's too close." He looks over his shoulder. Viggo shakes his head, wants to say he doesn't understand but Orlando's kissing him again, and everything has reversed direction, now it's the floor whirling away instead of the ceiling.

"Sleep." Orlando pushes him gently toward the bed, down onto the mattress. "Sleep and when you wake up, I'll tell you one true thing."

The candle goes out.

:::

Viggo wakes to the sound of thunder, to the relentless hammer of rain on the roof. There is a warm body next to his, snoring softly, and he smiles through the faint throb of his headache, turns a bit on his side to press closer. He hadn't expected... whatever. He hadn't expected. He reaches out blindly, and closes his hand on a fistful of silky... fur.

A cold wet nose presses into his face, followed by a hot wet tongue. Viggo flails; nearby someone laughs. The dog barks and licks Viggo's face again.

"Fucking-" He pushes the dog away, rubs at his eyes. It's dim, greyish light filtering in from one high and tiny window.

"You're fucking popular, man," says the voice, and Viggo sits up, swings his feet to the floor. He squints to focus. Baby Doll is sitting on a milk crate just inside the door, shaking his head. "Samedi hates everybody but Orlando, but you, man, fuck. Wouldn't leave your side. Dunno what she sees in you. Maybe it's how you smell."

Viggo blinks. The kid smiles angelically for a brilliant moment before shattering the illusion again, cramming a cigarette into the corner of his mouth.

"You want?" He shakes the pack at Viggo.

Viggo nods, reaches out and takes one, runs it over his lips before putting it in his mouth. He can feel the kid's eyes on him as he does, as he shifts to get his lighter out of his too-tight pocket. He sparks the Zippo on his seam of his jeans, holds the flame out after he's lit his own. "You want?" he echoes.

Baby Doll doesn't touch him, just hitches forward and dangles the end of his smoke in the fire, puffing and exhaling through his nose. "Thanks."

"Where's Orlando?" Viggo asks. He snaps the lighter shut, shoves it back into his pocket. He props his elbows on his knees and dangles his hands between them. "I'm sorry. He told me your name, but-"

"Elijah." The kid regards Viggo through a pall of smoke. "And listen, man, I don't got any problem with you specifically, okay, it's not you. It's just we're not fucking animals, okay, this isn't the motherfucking zoo, and what I have a problem with is the fucking idea that you're gonna, somebody's gonna put all our faces out there and next thing I know I'm trying to work and I got _Oh my GAWD, Loretta, look! It's the liddle boy from the book I sawr on Oprah!_ "

Elijah does a dead perfect Long Island accent, and Viggo snorts in spite of himself.

"It isn't like that, kid."

"That's what Orlando says."

"Maybe you should trust him." Viggo quirks an eyebrow.

"Maybe you shouldn't." Elijah quirks one back.

Samedi flops heavily to the floor, puts her head on Viggo's knee. The dog is black and enormous, of indeterminate breed. Half Newfoundland and half wooly mammoth, at his best guess. She butts against his leg, and he scritches her ruff absently. She wuffs with pleasure.

"Look," Elijah says, drops his cigarette half-smoked and grinds it out under his sneaker. "Enough fuckin' small talk. We've all made our promises, right? So I'm supposed to make you feel welcome. Welcome." He stands up, brushes his hands off on the front of his jeans. "It's about eleven in the morning, and believe it or not we've got running water here - no, I don't know how and I don't fucking ask, so leave it - so I'm s'posed to point you to the john and tell you that we're gonna hike up to the square and meet up with Billy and Dom who went for _brunch_ , the fucking faggots." There's only amused affection in his voice. Elijah knuckles one eye and continues. "And then we meet and greet some more, yay, whereupon you'll fuck off and leave us to work while you do your thing and Orlando says if you want to keep your hotel room, he won't mind, he knows where to find you. Okay?"

"Okay." Viggo drops his own cigarette, scuffs it out. He pinches the bridge of his nose. The night before is a distant blur; the taste of Orlando's mouth all but gone. He swallows. "I can live with that."

:::

The rain has slowed to tepid drizzle by the time they get to Jackson Square, but Billy and Dom are nowhere to be found. Elijah turns the air purple with a breathless stream of profanity. He shakes his head, spits on the ground before turning to Viggo. "Look, I can't baby-sit you right now. You're gonna have to go."

Viggo shrugs, scanning the milling throng of tourists. There are shaved heads among the crowd, but none that curves just so in the watery sunlight. "You still haven't told me where Orlando is."

_Never try to find me by day._

He rolls his shoulders, flips up his shirt collar. It's the rain down the back of his neck that makes him shiver, nothing more.

"Yes, I did. I told you he's not here." Elijah hops on his toes, his thin t-shirt clings to his torso as he shoves his hands deep in his pockets. "Fuck off, okay? Your time will come, but it's not now."

Viggo starts to apologize, but Elijah's already disappeared.

:::

He's been far filthier but he doesn't want to push his luck or the good graces of the hotel's laundry service; peels out of his clothes and dumps them by the door. It's still several hours till sundown, and the storm has doubled back, is beating ever harder on the roof. When he opens the French doors, the air is full of the smell of brimstone and roses.

He's too edgy to try to work, too nervous to go back out into the streets without... something. Some kind of sign, maybe. Don't know. He should call his editor but instead he jerks off in the shower, trying to remember.

The recollection of Orlando's kiss is hazy and indistinct, it could be any lips, any teeth and tongue. Sharper, clearer, is his recall of the feel of Orlando's skull under his palm, the softness of his hair. The hard planes of his body, shifting against Viggo's; the smell of damp wool and sweat.

Viggo braces his forehead on his arm, leans heavily on the wall of the shower as he comes, biting his lip hard to choke back the name.

:::

He wakes for the second time to a red sky. Orlando is perched on the chair in the corner, his head tilted to one side. Viggo blinks.

"I locked the door."

"I persuaded the concierge." Flash of white teeth in the shadows. "The day did not go as planned. I'm sorry."

Viggo props himself up on his elbows. "And now?" He doesn't know what to expect and he doesn't dare hope.

Orlando rubs his thumb across his mouth thoughtfully, and then grins. "I owe you something."

It's tempting to just get up and wipe that smug look off Orlando's face but Viggo just breathes, just waits. Orlando gets down from the chair with an impossible little hop, unfolds to his full height. It's just the angle, the perspective-he's a photographer, he knows about these things-but the movement looks unnatural. Viggo blinks, licks his lips.

When Orlando sits on the edge of the bed, Viggo can only stare up at him, at the curve of his lips, the shape of his head, the angular set of his shoulders. Orlando's expression has softened, his eyes darker than ever. Viggo inhales, reaches up, but Orlando bats his hand away and shakes his head.

"Be still," Orlando whispers. His fingers hover above Viggo's bare chest, tracing lines and patterns just above the skin. "Do you know why I agreed? You told me why you agreed, but I didn't answer."

Viggo shakes his head. Orlando's fingertips are so close that it feels like they are burning and it would only take the smallest movement to close the distance. Just a deeper breath, that's all.

"I agreed-" Orlando makes a cross above the notch of Viggo's collarbone, flanks it with long, sweeping lines. "-because you are an honest man."

It's everything, and it's nothing at all, but it's true, Viggo is sure of it. He lets out his breath. Orlando's hand stills, just above Viggo's heart.

"If you ask me anything, anything at all, I'll answer. Or I won't. But I won't lie to you. Agreed?"

"Yes." It's a privilege, not a bargain. He nods.

"And if you ask me _for_ anything, absolutely anything, anytime... If I can give it to you, I will. But in return you'll do one thing for me. Just one thing."

"Yeah. Yes. Yes." Viggo feels his heartbeat slowing, swallows hard as he looks up at Orlando, backlit by the wounded sunset.

"Agreed."

The silence stretches out between their lips, the very air seeming to fall into stillness. Viggo can't hear the traffic in the street below, can't feel anything except the heat between Orlando's palm and his skin. He can't look away. He can't move. His whole body prickles with something more than arousal, something more than mere blood.

Orlando pulls back his hand then, and smiles crookedly as he stands. Viggo nearly screams.

"What-"

"Dom's been knicked. We've got to go bail him out." The tails of Orlando's coat whirl as he turns. "Come on, where's your boots? Your shirt? Ah ah, don't forget this." He picks up the camera bag from the table and waves it at Viggo. "Come on, mate. We've got an hour."

:::

"Billy, Viggo, Viggo, Billy." Orlando makes a gesture between them that resembles a benediction.

Billy's grip is callused and firm. "So you're the guy," he says. "None of my business, is it? You'll get what you need, fine by me, it's all right, but first we have a bloody fucking _problem_." He hunches deeper into his collar, shooting a look across the street toward the 8th District Station.

Orlando holds up his finger. "When I tell you I'll fix it, I mean I'll fix it. Don't question me, William."

They stare, hell, they eyefuck, until Billy finally blinks, blinks and then licks one pointed tooth. "Orlando. I want Dominic out of that cell. Tonight. Please."

There is desperation in his demand, a note so well-disguised that Viggo barely hears it. Orland nods.

"I know," he says, voice going gentle. "And I want you to tell me one more time _exactly_ what happened."

They'd made good money busking over the weekend, Dom was feeling flush, so they left Elijah with Viggo and went to get something to eat.

"Not like we went to fuckin' Commander's, either. But the cunt wouldn't seat us, would he? Said they were full even though they really weren't, and Dommie didn't lose his temper, either. He said thank-you, even, I don't... Ah, fuck I don't know. Maybe he got a little angry. But he never said... anything about it until we got outside. And so we were sharing a fag and along comes the filth. Beat cop. Says he's had a report of vagrants loitering and disturbing the customers."

Orlando's expression has gotten darker and darker through the whole of the tale, and he interrupts suddenly, holds his finger up again. "He spoke to you. The cop. He spoke to you first?"

Billy nods. "He said, 'What're y'all doing, boys?' Havin' a smoke, says Dominic. And the filth said he'd been called to investigate a disturbance. Et cetera. You know."

"And that's when Dom-"

"Aye. That's when Dom told the filth to suck his cock."

Orlando blows out his breath in a heavy sigh. Viggo scratches his chin and hopes he doesn't look too amused.

"Right." Orlando adjusts his coat. Viggo wonders how in hell he's not passing out from the heat in the thing, he can barely stand jeans and a t-shirt himself but Orlando hasn't even broken a sweat. Billy just looks miserable, still sopping from the days' storms.

"Right," Orlando repeats. "Billy. You go meet Elijah and Livvie at the cathedral. She's telling cards tonight, so Lij'll be working the crowd. Go sit with her. Fuck, buy yourself some bloody coffee." He digs in his pocket, pulls out a crumpled ten and presses it into Billy's hand. "Viggo, you're with me."

He doesn't even look before he plunges into traffic.

:::

The desk sergeant starts backing up as soon as she sees Orlando swing through the doors, her hands up, palms out in defense. She collides with the second counter behind her, and makes a noise like a yelp. It's not fear on her face, not exactly. Worry, apprehension, confusion. The lens cap's already off and in his jeans pocket - Viggo's hand itches over the shutter.

"Sergeant Sollay!" Orlando declaims in ringing tones, then lowers his voice to an intimate caress. "Miss _Virginia_. You look lovely this evening. Smashing. Blue is your colour, it really is."

"I don't want whatever you got, King," she says, shaking her head, "and whatever your problem is, it ain't mine."

"Virginia." Orlando practically throws himself across the high wooden counter, his elbows in the middle. "Darling. After all these years. You know what I want, I am quite sure you know what I want, and you. Are. Going. To give it to me. _Tu comprends, chérie_?"

If it wasn't happening in front of him, Viggo wouldn't believe it. The sergeant is a raw-boned woman of about Viggo's own age, her hair tightly clubbed, her uniform arranged to the letter, the very picture of order. And she's got a gun, for fuck's sake. But even as she shakes her head, she's moving back toward Orlando, toward the front counter.

"I don't want trouble," she says, and bites her lip.

"And neither do I, darling, and that's why you're going to fix this, because _your_ people fucked up, Virginia."

Viggo abruptly realises that they are alone, that the bustle of the department house has faded away. He can't hear the ringing of boots on the marble floors, he can't hear the sobbing junkie that they'd passed in the corridor, he can't see a single other uniform. The fan above the desks whirs loudly, rattling its fittings.

"We fucked up," she parrots, nodding slowly, and Orlando nods back.

"You took one of mine, and I'll have him back now, please."

She nods again, picks up the phone and presses numbers while Orlando watches, while Viggo watches them both. Cold sweat drips down the back of his neck.

"It's Sollay," she says into the phone. "That kid in holding. Monaghan. Yes, he's been released. Paperwork?"

Orlando shakes his head shortly.

"It's being faxed. It was a mistake. You can send him out. Yeah. Yeah. Right."

She clatters the handset back into its cradle, perspiration beading across the bridge of her nose.

"Oh, Virginia." Orlando leans in even further, reaches out and touches the woman between the eyes with two fingertips. "You've done so well. Thank you."

"It was just a mistake," she breathes.

"That's right," Orlando says. "And it shan't happen again, eh?"

She shakes her head; Orlando cups her cheek tenderly. Viggo has the camera halfway up before he remembers his promise, bites the inside of his cheek hard to keep from swearing out loud. Shit.

"It won't happen again."

"That's right, Virginia." Orlando brushes his thumb over her lips, his voice an intimate vibration. "And you tell your fucking pigs to leave my streets to me."

The doors at the back of the room fly open with a deafening crash.

Viggo jumps, tastes fear thick and sour on the back of his tongue, but when he turns back, Orlando is nowhere near the desk, Sergeant Sollay is back in the middle of the station, and a uniformed officer is escorting Gracie - Dominic - toward the gate.

"Fucking _shite_ , Orlando, about fucking time." Dominic brushes the hand off his bicep with a withering look at the officer. "Where's... everybody?"

"Not in here." Orlando waves at the door. "Come on, you've places to be."

:::

They find Elijah and Billy in Père Antoine Alley, making out against the side of the church; Viggo shoots three, four frames before Dom tells him to fuck off and Orlando starts to laugh. They break apart at the familiar voices, then engulf Dom in their arms.

"Go on," Orlando whispers. "That's your shot."

 _click_.

An hour goes by, two, as they wind through the Quarter; Orlando points and Viggo clicks. They walk down streets he never would have braved alone, sees faces he has never seen before, even after almost a month at this. A mother and child, dirty and barefoot, huddled at the base of a live oak, their possessions in a cart from the Winn-Dixie. Viggo takes a half-dozen pictures, then Orlando presses fifty dollars into the woman's hand.

"Go to the shelter," he says to her. The baby burbles at him. The woman weeps out her gratitude, and Orlando only smiles.

They don't speak as they walk, engulfed in warm silence. The noise of Bourbon is a distant buzz, Orlando's breath on Viggo's cheek a more present distraction. Near the gates of Armstrong Park a little white dog tears out of the bushes, yipping at Viggo until Orlando crouches down, addresses the thing as Mardi.

" _Ça va_ , eh mutt?" The dog licks Orlando's fingers while Orlando coos a stream of gutter French at it, his patois half Cajun and half just plain bad grammar.

In his mind Viggo has at least a hundred questions for Orlando, some dead serious, some utterly ridiculous. What the hell happened back there at the police station? Who are you? Why do you call stray dogs after days of the week? Why can't I take your picture? Why is the sky here violet at night? What do you know that I don't? _Who are you?_

Orlando turns his head, looks back up over his shoulder at Viggo, the angles of his face thrown into in sharp relief under bright lights of the park's gate.

_Ask me anything. I won't lie to you._

"Will you come home with me?"

Orlando lifts the dog into his lap, gives it one last squish before turning it loose with a swat on its bottom. "Back to your room, you mean."

"Yes." Yes, please. Viggo's hands clench at his sides.

Orlando nods slowly, rising to his feet. "Yes."

Still they walk in silence; still Orlando is warm beside him.

:::

Orlando finds candles in the top drawer of the dresser, explains that power outages are frequent in the city, even in the best hotels. He lights four thick white ones, places them in the four corners of the room. Viggo sits on the end of the bed while he unlaces his boots, watches Orlando pace around the room.

He kicks away the boots, his socks, stops with his fingers on the hem of his t-shirt as Orlando stops in front of him, one palm held out.

"Tell me what you want," Orlando says, low and smoke-rough.

"You," Viggo blurts. He feels no shame.

Orlando shakes his head. "Start at the beginning. Tell me. Tell me what to do for you."

Viggo closes his eyes, breathes in through his nose. The candles smell faintly of rose. "Your coat. Take it off."

He does, lays it gently on the chair.

"Your shirt. Please."

Orlando drops the wad of cotton to the floor. His jeans hang low, well below the high ridges of his narrow hips. The candlelight limns his form, makes him seem like an etching come to life. Viggo exhales.

"Come closer."

A step.

"Closer."

Two steps. Viggo hitches back on the bed, puts his hand on the mattress between his knees.

"Here. Turn around and sit... here."

Orlando fits in the space perfectly, sits with his head bowed and his hands on Viggo's knees. Up close Viggo can see that the wings are indigo, the lines only just softened with age. He brings his hand up, traces the outline of one exquisitely detailed feather. Orlando hisses and shudders.

"Oh," Viggo breathes.

Just the tip of one finger, following a single line from the middle upward, following the right-hand wing to its tip on the back of Orlando's bicep. Orlando sighs. Viggo starts again, tracing the wing along his shoulder blade with the same firm touch. Every stroke of ink, every line, every feather. Up and down the ridge of Orlando's spine, the ink thick and dark there, out to the edges of his ribs where the detail is impossibly fine. Orlando's breath comes fast and shallow, he presses his ass back against Viggo's cock, digs his fingers into Viggo's knees.

He traces the wing tip on Orlando's arm, his finger brushing as light as cobweb, his own breathing ragged. He stops, imagines he can hear Orlando's heart pounding for a moment, and then Viggo starts on the left wing with his left hand. Orlando gasps and sobs, trembling and twisting and it hits Viggo a second later. He holds on hard to Orlando's shoulders, his mouth pressed in a silent scream at the base of Orlando's neck.

When he sleeps, he dreams of feathers against his skin; when he wakes, Orlando is gone.

:::

He finds the candles burnt to black stubs of wax, he finds the French doors open, but there is no evidence that Orlando was ever there. Viggo sits on the end of the bed again, fingers molding over remembered forms. If he closes his eyes he can still taste the salt on Orlando's skin, he can still feel the smooth planes of Orlando's chest. He inhales, remembering the smells of spunk and sweat between them when they'd tumbled toward the pillows, kissing and groping like teenagers.

 _Go to sleep_ , Orlando had said; Viggo refused and Orlando's laugh was husky and delighted. He kissed his fingertip, stroked over Viggo's brow.

_Go to sleep._

He opens his eyes.

He showers and shaves in slow motion, dresses in his oldest jeans, his softest t-shirt. His stomach growls; he presses the heel of his hand hard there to still it, and picks up the phone.

At the New York office they tell him that Sean is in London; it's just after five in England, but Sean will still be working, Viggo has no doubt of that. Among other flaws that make Sean a celebrated editor but a terrible husband, the man is a raging workaholic. Just as well - three alimony checks a month would put a lesser man in the poorhouse.

Viggo misses that pause on the old international lines, the speed of sound no match for the width of the world. This is the digital age, though - he's barely given his name when Sean's assistant confirms his presence and asks him to hold. He is subjected to nearly five minutes of Gershwin before--

"Bean."

"Bean. Hey, it's me."

A chair creaks.

"I'm sorry, who is this?"

"Fuck you."

"You sound American. I did have an American chap working for me once, name of Mortensen. Sent him off to Louisiana and never heard from him again, so naturally we assumed he'd been eaten by crocodiles and reclaimed his advance from his heirs."

Viggo rolls his eyes. "Alligators, Sean. Crocodiles is Africa."

"Yes, Africa. Mortensen knew about Africa, went there several times. Did you know he was working in a war zone in the middle of a bloody _jungle_ one time and he still checked in? Good photographer. A shame about him and those crocodiles."

"Your point is made."

"I do hope so." Another pause, the chink of ice in a glass. "How's the fuckin' weather, man? I expect you've gotten your tan well in hand, and are now reporting for duty?"

"I've got a heat rash and the hotel laundry keeps starching my boxers."

"Go without, and save me the cleaning bill," Sean replies archly.

Viggo laughs. "It's going really fucking well. And really fucking weird," he adds. He knuckles at one eye.

"The two states do seem to mesh where you're concerned." The clicksnap of a lighter, the deep breath of the first drag. "How well and how weird, exactly?"

"Really... very... both." Viggo considers how much to tell, fumbles for his own cigarettes. The phone has a long cord, and he paces while he smokes, while he tries to think of what to say.

It's a long time before Sean breaks the silence, an edge of concern in his voice. "So you're in good and deep, then?"

"Yeah." It's the truth.

Another silence. Another clicksnap. "When you rang me up with this, Viggo, when you said, I want to do something important again, do you remember what I told you?"

"Don't fuck it up."

"Don't fuck it up."

They speak nearly in unison.

"Right," Sean continues. "And I didn't say that because you are prone to fucking up, did I? It only took one time, didn't it?"

Viggo doesn't reply. He mashes his cigarette out in the ashtray, leans on the dresser.

"If you want to drop this, Viggo, you say so. I'll have you on the next plane home, you can go put together another nancy book of, of fuckin' soft-focus shots of swimming pools, I don't bloody well care, you know I'll print it. You've been out of the game for going on a decade, nobody's going to give a toss if you pull out, man." A thud, a fist hitting a thick leather desk blotter. "Fucking hell, Viggo. If you can't handle it, say so right now, cos if I have to come identify your fucking body again, I'll fucking kill you."

Through the open doors the sun is high and bright over the Mississippi. Viggo rubs his chest. "I can handle it. I'll call you in a couple of days."

"Christ," Sean sighs. "You're gonna be the fucking death of me."

:::

The boys are nowhere to be found but Livvie is down at the bottom of the steps, sitting with her bare toes licked by the river. She glances at Viggo and shrugs when he motions toward the spot next to her.

"You're not wearing your jewels today," he observes.

"You don't have your camera today," she answers sharply, "so that works out."

"I can go."

"No, it's all right." She turns and looks him then, wide blue eyes bright and red-rimmed.

"I'm sorry, I'm-"

"I said it's all right." She's wearing a thin batik dress and man's shirt; she pulls the shirt tighter around her body. "Orlando says-well, he says a lot of things." She smiles for a second, then settles back against the post, staring at something only she can see.

If Viggo didn't know better he'd say she was any other local girl, or a tourist even, enchanted by the movement of the wide, lazy river, by the shell pink sky. He tears off the sip tab on his coffee, offers her a sip. She smiles again and shakes her head. "I can't do caffeine. It makes me jittery."

For some reason it strikes them both funny at the same moment; Livvie covers her mouth with her knuckles, giggling while Viggo snort-laughs, trying and failing to keep from spilling his coffee. She shoves at his shoulder, shaking her head.

"Oh, fuck it. Fuck." She wipes her nose on the back of her hand. "I'm sorry I was so horrible to you the other night. I don't. You."

Viggo shrugs, takes a hefty swallow of bittersweet café au lait. "You don't owe me anything, least of all an apology."

"I agreed to talk to you." She looks down, pokes her finger through one buttonhole and twists it. "I, well. People tend to do what Orlando asks."

"And you're getting paid."

"And I'm getting paid."

A barge blares its horn as it comes into the river bend, a black steel monster the length of two city blocks. It moves with infinitesimal slowness, barely making waves.

"Orlando's in love with you."

Viggo nearly spills his coffee again, puts it down on the step next to him. When he lights his cigarette his hands shake.

"You were with him last night, weren't you?" she says softly, her faint lisp making the words all the more sibilant. "I can smell him all over you. Not like that, it's... hard to explain. Did you fuck?"

Viggo shakes his head. "Not, uh. Not really." It comes out more choked than not.

"You will." She looks out over the water again, sighs. "Orlando doesn't fall. He crushes. He... obsesses, even. Sometimes. But he doesn't fall. This is new. Do you love him, too?"

"I don't know." Yet.

A gaggle of tourists spill down the steps. They talk loudly, point, take pictures, retreat again.

"I wound up in New Orleans because of a man," Livvie offers after they've gone. She picks at her buttonhole again, tugs on the worn threads. "I... I was a baby. I didn't know shit about shit." She laughs. "And my mother... she said if I went out that door she'd never take me back. Of course I knew she would, if it came to that. I knew it. Imagine my surprise... I called her collect and she refused the charge. That was... oh. That was almost ten years ago."

He doesn't say he's sorry, but he shakes out a cigarette, offers it silently. She waves it away with another soft smile, so he takes the butt out of his mouth, crams in the fresh one and lights it with the old.

"I was seventeen. I met Orlando about a year later, when I was hooking - I didn't meet him on the job, by the way, he's not, um. I mean, he does like girls, sometimes. But he doesn't fuck whores. He got me out, when I. When I was in a very bad situation."

Viggo frowns. "How old are you now?"

"Twenty-four in July. I've been here since, um. 1994."

If Orlando was 24 when he came to New Orleans, and she met Orlando in 1995, six years ago, that makes him at least-no. "There's no way Orlando's thirty." He turns to Livvie, shaking his head.

She shrugs. "He has good skin."

He shakes his head again, flicks his cigarette butt into the water. To push or not to push. "I'm sorry. You were saying?"

"Orlando's not like other people, Viggo." She puts her hand on his wrist, squeezes just this side of too-hard. "But he's good. He's really good. No matter what, remember that, okay?"

Viggo nods; she runs her fingertips down over the back of his hand.

"Let me see your palm," she says. "I don't take money for the real thing. The shit I do for the tourists, that's not... it's the same as singing or dancing, it's just performing. You can tell what people expect to hear."

"And me?"

Livvie laughs. "I don't need your palm to tell me you didn't expect any of this."

It's tempting, it's been tempting all week, to just give over to suspicion. Nothing makes sense. It would be easy, even logical, to conclude that there's something sinister behind it all, but when Viggo tries for logic all he gets is a flash back to the feel of Orlando's shoulder blades under his palms.

"Which hand?"

"Both." Livvie turns to face him, tucks her feet under her skirt. "Come on, trust me."

"Do you trust me?"

She regards him seriously for a moment, eyes gone dark. "I do now."

Viggo swallows, and puts his hands in hers.

"If you try to read your own palm," Livvie said, "you'll see everything backward."

"Like, what looks like the end is the beginning and vice versa? Can't you just turn it around?"

She shook her head, her hair falling forward to cover her face. "No. It's not that simple. Take this, for example." Her fingernail stroked a line, made his hand curl involuntarily. "This means you'll lose something of value. But to read it from your side, it doesn't mean you gain something, it means you lose something even greater. Maybe backward is the wrong word. If you read from the other side it's just... wrong."

Viggo nodded, watched her thin finger trace and retrace his lifeline. "What else?"

Livvie smiled, her thumbs coming up to smooth across his palm. "Most lines, they show what's likely, not what's certain. Some lines show the past, not the future." Her thumbs stroked in slow circles. Viggo felt the sun burning down on his shoulders, felt his breathing slow. "This mark here, this means a dangerous journey, but it's in the past. From your side it looks like it's in the future. Either way it didn't turn out so well."

He nodded again. Movement seemed nearly impossible.

"And this one here, this is also the past. It means you've seen death, but it did not claim you."

"How-"

She released his hand, held her own up for a moment before closing her fingers and keeping her secrets. "Because I have it, too."

:::

He buys them each a plate of beignets, for her a decaf, for him another _au lait_ ; they claim a table at the far corner of the canopy to while away the rest of the afternoon. It's the first time in years that he's felt like a tourist, it's the first time that people-watching was just that.

He doesn't press her for more of her story; she does him the same favor. They sit in a warm sugary silence, the whole city talking more than enough to fill the void.

"There's the boys," Livvie says as the shadows begin to fall, pointing to the three coming up the street. She rolls her eyes. "Finally finished with their daily circle-jerk."

Viggo snorts, licks his finger and pokes it into the sugar on his plate. "So it's like that?"

"Yeah. It works for them, I don't know how, but it does." She watches them for a moment, shoving and laughing and knocking into each other, and then turns back with a serious smile. "Hey, look, I have to go. Thanks for today. I felt like a real girl again, for a little while there." She puts her hands on the table when she stands, leans across and brushes her lips across his cheek.

The few seconds it takes him to recover from the surprise are just enough for her to disappear.

"Hallo, mate." Dom slides into Livvie's empty chair with a wide crooked smile, flops back like he owns the place.

Viggo casts about, sees Elijah and Billy swiping chairs from other tables, sees Elijah palm a watch so smoothly that he's not sure he saw it at all. "Hey."

Dom slumps forward and plants his elbows in the middle of the table, makes the dishes clatter. There is a puff of powdered sugar. "Wanted to thank you for the other night, yeah? You backed us up. Guess the king is right, you're not all bad."

There's a compliment in there somewhere; Viggo acknowledges it with a nod. He shakes out a cigarette, offers one to Dom, who waves it away, but Elijah leans in and snags it. He puts his chair down and drops into it; Billy wedges in between Viggo and Elijah.

"Why..." Viggo lights his smoke, lowers his voice. "Why does. Why does everyone call him the king?"

Elijah shakes out his match and drops it in the middle of Viggo's plate. "Because he _is_ , you fuckin' mook."

Billy cuffs Elijah's shoulder. "Oi."

"Oiiii," Elijah mocks, and then he giggles, a sound even more startling than Livvie's kiss.

"Oi." Dom frowns. "Can I finish my conversation, please? Fucking children, Christ."

The other two roll their eyes in unison, scrape their chairs closer together so that they are shoulder to shoulder. Billy takes Elijah's cigarette out of the corner of his mouth, takes a long drag and then turns his head, lips barely parted. Smoke rises from the kiss.

Viggo shifts in his chair. "I should..."

Dom makes a soft noise; they break apart, and Billy takes another drag off the cigarette before passing it along. Dom inhales with contented sigh.

"We share everything," Billy says in a quiet tone. His knuckle lingers on Dom's lip when he takes the cigarette back.

"I see." Viggo flags a waitress down, hands over a twenty. "Three large coffees."

"Can we get those in to-go cups, hon?" Elijah adds. "Thanks." He gives the girl just the hint of a smile, curve of his lips, flash of his gap. She visibly reddens, her tray shaking a little in her hand as she goes.

"Elijah's a superhero," Dom confides. "He can make people come with his eyes."

"I thought it was he killed people with his eyes." Billy scratches his chin.

"No, I'm pretty sure it's orgasms."

"Everything's orgasms with you, Dommie."

"Generally, yeah." Dom settles back in his chair, his shirt rucking up when he stretches. "Anyway. I was saying. Viggo. You seem like a decent sort, and himself vouches for you, so that's all right, and what day is it, Elijah?"

"Wednesday," Elijah answers around a mouthful of cuticle.

Dom does some kind of calculation on his fingers, then looks at Viggo pointedly. "The sun's down."

He jumps at the touch of a hand on the back of his neck, twists to look back and up at the same time. Orlando smiles down at him, fingers pushing up into Viggo's hair with frank familiarity. Orlando tugs just so and Viggo inhales sharply.

"Hi."

Viggo wants to lean back into the touch, wants to rub up into Orlando's hand and purr. "Hey," he answers instead, and is sure from the snickers across the table that he is failing utterly at playing it cool.

Orlando's fingers curl, gripping the base of Viggo's skull. He tries not to whimper.

"Come take a walk with me." Orlando's voice is even smokier than usual. His thumb digs in just behind Viggo's ear, moves in firm circles.

"Yeah. Uh."

They are nearing the end of the block by the time Viggo catches his breath. The night has come up fast, when they cross Bourbon it's already starting to swing. They pass a club where a trumpet player wails on the stage, another that is vibrating from the bass of the dance music. Orlando doesn't walk slowly or quickly, his pace measured, his strides long. Viggo opens his mouth to ask where they're going but Orlando turns, shakes his head.

Armstrong Park appears at the end of Dumaine, its bright gateway arch shining like a Vegas billboard in the night. Three men in suits and fedoras speak in low tones near one gatepost; when they catch sight of Orlando they freeze. One nods, raises two fingers to his hat brim. Orlando shakes his head, a sharp motion; the men melt away into the shadows.

"Come on," Orlando says, turning and pulling Viggo toward the gates.

"What? No, it's locked."

"The gate is open," Orlando answers. He lets go Viggo's wrist, and pushes at the gate. There is a heavy metal sound, the clatter of the chain and padlock hitting the pavement. The gate creaks and groans on its hinges. "See? Open." Orlando shoots a grin back over his shoulder before he slips through the breach and plunges into the dark.

Viggo sucks in a deep breath and goes after.

There were lamps along the path, he's sure he saw them from the street, but once through the gates everything is blanketed in shadow. He thinks he hears the rush of water; he thinks he hears leaves blown on the wind. His boots seem to ring against the cement.

"Orlando?" He meant to shout but it comes out a whisper, and it seems like he can't stop walking, like in a nightmare: if he keeps going forward whatever is behind him won't get any closer.

"Orlando?" Louder now. The sound of beating wings makes him stumble in surprise; he freezes for a second, listening. Nothing. The darkness wraps itself thickly around his ankles, pulling him onward, ever onward.

"Orlando?"

"Here, Viggo."

He looks toward the voice just as the cloud cover lifts; the moon is three-quarters full and just bright enough to see by. Orlando perches on a bench, elbows on knees, his head cocked to the side; when Viggo turns toward him he hops down and unfolds, stretching his arms out to the sides as he straightens back up. Viggo stifles a gasp. Orlando crooks his finger, and Viggo goes.

They crash together with enough force to make Viggo grunt, Orlando's mouth sharp and his hands heavy. Viggo grips the lapels of Orlando's coat, thankful for the handhold as they dance through the fathomless dark.

Stone? Brick? appears suddenly against his back; Viggo grunts again from the impact and Orlando slams him against the wall again, grinds their hips together. Christ. They're in a city park. They're trespassing in a city park in the middle of the night and-

"Be still," Orlando hisses against Viggo's lips, and drops to his knees.

Reality shatters into disparate sensations. The stone is cold and catches his hair, scratches against his cheek when he turns his head. Orlando's hands are warm and rough with calluses on Viggo's belly, the noise of fly-buttons popping sounds as loud as gunshots. The curve of Orlando's head is velvet soft against Viggo's palm; the heat of Orlando's mouth is brutally sweet. He rocks into it and Orlando's thumbs stroke over his hipbones in encouragement. The back of Orlando's throat is both fire and silk against the head of Viggo's cock.

The moon disappears behind a cloud. Viggo breathes in, and learns how to see in the dark.

:::

Orlando is golden, backlit by the fire; he kneels over Viggo in the wide soft chair, his hips and his shoulders moving to a music that Viggo can just barely hear, just barely feel. The air in the warehouse is arid and still, the darkness beyond their little corner is whole and unbroken. The heat from the fire licks at Viggo's face, makes the skin on his lips feel ready to tear, but then Orlando takes another mouthful of rum and lowers his head to offer cold bittersweet relief.

Rum runs down their chins, slicks Viggo's throat and his chest; he swallows enough to make his eyes water. Orlando snarls into the kiss, the hand not holding the bottle is knotted tight in Viggo's hair and he holds Viggo's head back, laps up the rum from Viggo's skin.

"Look at you..." Orlando's fist tightens in Viggo's hair, just to the edge of pain. "Just look at you."

Viggo closes his eyes instead. He doesn't remember how they got here from the park, he doesn't remember undressing, all he knows is this. This. He grips at Orlando's hips blindly.

"No? Then look at me." Orlando runs his fingers down across Viggo's forehead, down his nose, across one cheek. His voice is a curl of smoke next to Viggo's ear. "Look at me, touch me."

Touch. Viggo runs his palms up Orlando's arms, flexes his fingers over Orlando's biceps before curving just a breath upward, his fingertips coming to rest just there, just where he knows the tips of Orlando's wings to be. His eyes flutter open.

"Yeah." Orlando shudders and sighs, grinds his hips down against Viggo's. Viggo groans softly, slides his hands along the backs of Orlando's shoulders, down toward his spine. Orlando curses, drops his head back down to Viggo's mouth.

"Good?" Viggo breathes, and he feels like an idiot until Orlando grins and nods.

Another mouthful of rum, another alcohol-sharp kiss. Viggo's hands clutch and slide over Orlando's back, slick with sweat. Orlando bites at Viggo's chin, settles down again. His cock presses warmly against Viggo's belly; he trails his fingers over Viggo's lips.

"Tell me about this."

The ridge of white scar tissue seems to burn under Orlando's touch. Viggo flicks his tongue out, tastes alcohol and salt.

"I was a kid. Younger than you are now."

Orlando looks pleased at that, strokes the scar again. "A fight?"

"An accident. I was drunk." He turns his cheek into Orlando's hand.

"In a car?"

"No, a motorcycle."

"Dead sexy." Orlando kisses him, kisses the scar before he sits back again. "And these. What about these?"

Viggo doesn't need to look down to know that Orlando's touching the jagged marks at the base of his ribs; he shakes his head. "I was... It was..." He can't. He can't.

"Viggo? Hey, none of that." There is nothing but sympathy in Orlando's eyes; he puts the bottle down on the floor, brings both hands to rest on Viggo's chest. "Don't mind me. I'm sorry."

"'S'all right," Viggo mumbles, rests his forehead against Orlando's breastbone. He can hear Orlando's heart beating steady and strong, a reassuring tempo. "I'm all right."

The fire crackles and hisses. Viggo can feel the sweat growing cold between their bodies. Orlando's fingers make soothing shapes along Viggo's shoulders, up and down the back of his neck. "Good?" Orlando asks, punctuates the question with a gentle rock of his hips.

Viggo nods, his lips parting against Orlando's chest. "Better."

"And this?" Orlando reaches between them, thumbs hard over Viggo's nipple.

"Uh. Passable."

Orlando pinches; Viggo groans.

"Hmm?"

"You can-oh-do better, I'm-fuck-sure."

The ring on Orlando's right hand is cold against Viggo's cock; he drops his head back, arches into the touch. Orlando's eyes are intense, focused; he licks sweat off his lower lip.

"I want to fuck you," Viggo says; it comes out harsh and bald and hopelessly needy but Orlando just hisses _yes_ , combines a squeeze of Viggo's cock with a biting kiss that leaves them both struggling for air.

Orlando knocks his forehead against Viggo's. "Don't move."

Don't move. Don't move, don't move; he slouches in the chair and watches Orlando disappear into the dark, listens to the hammering of his heart. Is it even real? _One two three wake up_. Viggo blinks, the air shimmers; he waits for the blackness to part again.

Viggo doesn't comprehend until Orlando is on top of him again, until he sees Orlando's smug grin and the bottle in his hand. Lube. He went to get lube. Cheap stuff, feels almost like water but it works well enough. Viggo slicks two fingers, twists them into Orlando's ass and Orlando bucks and growls, Orlando bites Viggo's shoulder and says, "More."

More, yeah, more is good. He pushes deeper, feels Orlando unclenching, feels Orlando's short hot breaths against his ear. "More?"

"Oh fuck. More." Orlando drives down against Viggo's hand. "Fuck me, more."

Viggo tugs his fingers free and Orlando whines. "Shh." Viggo licks over Orlando's bottom lip. "Just a-"

And about fourteen seconds pass while he gets ready, where he has the opportunity to ask himself what the fuck he thinks he's doing, to change his mind. Fourteen seconds, the space of five breaths. Five breaths to reconsider, five breaths to fall. Viggo takes the sixth breath and shoves up into Orlando's body.

"Goddammit-"

"Fuck-"

Orlando throws his head back, braces his hand against Viggo's shoulder and Christ, he's tight, he's perfect, bathed in sweat and firelight. He works his cock with the other hand and all Viggo can really do is try to keep up, keep driving up into that slick heat and try not to fall apart.

"How-?"

"Good."

"I-"

"Yes."

When Orlando comes it's with an earth-shattering whimper; he bows his head and he bites his lip while his come splashes hot on Viggo's belly. When Orlando comes he tries to keep still but he shakes, his long limbs wracked with tremors. When Orlando comes Viggo wants to laugh, wants to cry, wants to die like this, right here, inside him.

Hours later, minutes later, Orlando urges them up; Viggo follows him, weak-kneed, to the room where he'd slept before. The cement stings his bare feet. The little table by the bed is covered now with candles in glass jars; Orlando takes up a box of matches and lights each one, fills the room with flickering light. Viggo catches Orlando by the elbow, spins him around for a kiss.

"Thank-you..." Orlando murmurs. He smoothes the back of his hand over Viggo's cheek.

"You'll be gone when I wake up." It is flat statement of truth, not an accusation. Viggo strokes up Orlando's spine, up over one wing, and Orlando trembles, then nods.

"Yes. I will."

:::

Viggo's clothes are folded at the foot of the bed when he wakes, his boots set by the door like it was a five-star hotel instead of a ratty warehouse by the river. He can smell Orlando on the blankets, on his skin, can still feel Orlando's weight, Orlando's-.

"Goddammit." He scrubs his palms over his face, rakes his fingers through his hair. Goddammit.

Samedi comes pushing through the curtain while he's dressing, followed by a sleek dark dog half the size of the Newf; it resembles a small Doberman with its pointed ears and its tongue lolling out through wicked teeth. The dog stops and looks at him, sniffing the air and Viggo thinks for a brief panicked moment that he has nowhere to go if this one isn't as friendly as the rest, takes an involuntary step back when the dog trots forward and jams its nose directly into his crotch.

"Ah. Okay. Um." He shoves at the dog's shoulders. "Uh. Nice puppy. Oh for the love-"

He wonders if he yelled for help would anyone hear him.

"Are you decen-Vendi!" Billy pushes through the curtain, gives the dog a kick in the hindquarters. "Vendredi is a little-fuck OFF, mutt-over friendly sometimes." He gives the dog another boot and it takes off with a clatter of toenails on cement.

Samedi looks amused and flops on the floor with a heavy sigh.

"Yeah, I got that." Viggo grabs for his shirt, tugs it on over his head. "Thanks." He jams his feet into his boots, rubs his face again. "You know what time it is?"

"Morning." Billy shrugs. "I came to say there's breakfast, if you want. Eggs and bake from I don't know where, but it's good. Livvie brought it-she's sacked out, by the way, said to tell you, you should hang around the plaza in front of the cathedral today-and right, breakie's gettin' cold. You in?"

"In," Viggo agrees.

The eggs and bacon are mostly still warm; they eat in the chairs around the fire-barrel, passing the Styrofoam carton back and forth between them, and throw the scraps to the dogs. There is an orange Bakelite radio on the floor between their two chairs, and Billy leans down, gives it a thump. The amp needle swings back and forth for a moment; there is a hum and a crackle and then comes the music, soft Dixieland jazz.

Billy makes a pleased noise and settles back into his chair, swings one leg up over the arm. They talk about nothing, the music, the weather, about where Dom and Elijah are-working, Billy says, which Viggo takes to mean stealing. He doesn't ask, and in return Billy doesn't ask why Viggo's eyes keep being drawn back to the big chair on the far side, and the bottle of rum still sitting beside it.

It's only an hour later, when he's hiked up to Chartres Street to find a taxi, still humming an old Kid Ory tune, that Viggo remembers that the warehouse has no electricity.

:::

He spends the afternoon sitting by the cathedral, in a shadowed recess by the southwest entrance. The cargo pockets of his khakis are packed with film from the camera shop on Decatur; in the past month they've come to know both his name and his credit card number. Dom and Billy wander by at one point and sit with him for a while-he gives them money, they bring coffee and a shrimp po-boy. He doesn't mention his change and neither do they.

Viggo is all but invisible where he sits, the light is good and the people are better. He gets a shoving match between two of the begging street kids, the coins from the boy's plastic cup arching through the air and then falling like silver rain to the stones. He gets a woman wearing an impossibly high _tignon_ , weaving her way through the crowd with a monkey on her shoulder. He gets a shell game, a magician, an ingénue in white eyelet, crying as if her heart was breaking. He gets kids that flit like ghosts among the living, their ashen skin and their red-rimmed eyes marking them out as part of the tribe of Other.

Late in the day Livvie appears, to dance with-for?-a clutch of muscular young men playing buckets near the gates of the square. They are bare to the waist, with white pants and kerchiefs, their dark skins are gleaming with sweat as they drum. The beat is hypnotic and relentless; the plaza clears when Livvie starts to really move, her bare feet a blur. Coins hit the stones in fistfuls, bills flutter like confetti through the air.

The drummers move as a single unit, twisting left, right, throwing their heads back and shouting. They raise their arms, twirling their sticks; they raise their feet and knees to bring the buckets up off the ground, and in the pause Livvie falls backward into an arch, her hands slapping flat on the stones, her hair a fall of black silk, her body a perfect curve.

Viggo doesn't remember to breathe, but thank fucking god he remembers to press the shutter.

 _click_.

All that hung suspended crashes down like thunder-the drummers bring the buckets down, they bring their sticks down and Livvie goes up and over, up and over again, never missing a single beat.

The money showers down on them, the peal of coins on the stones echoing the sound of her laughter.

:::

Orlando falls into step beside him in Pirate's Alley, his hand warm on Viggo's back.

"Hey."

"Hi."

Whatcha think about this heat? The designated hitter rule? The president's first hundred days? How are you? What did you do today?

Small talk is empty and pointless. Viggo leans in, scrapes his stubble along Orlando's neck instead, closes his mouth on Orlando's jaw for a second before pulling back. Orlando makes a rumbling pleased noise.

"Your hotel is closest," he says; turns into Viggo's path so that they collide, hip to hip.

Viggo inhales, noses at Orlando's throat while Orlando pushes at his shoulders. They crash into a lamppost and Viggo whuffs, a surprised noise. The bulb in the lamp explodes in a shower of blue sparks and Orlando's next kiss is almost angry; he grabs Viggo's shoulders, they spin and stumble again, slamming into a shuttered door. The gaslights above their heads flare high and then blow out.

"You smell like roses." Viggo licks up the tendon in Orlando's neck. His camera bag swings off his shoulder and bumps into their knees.

"You smell like _me_ ," Orlando growls back. He has a fistful of Viggo's shirt, a fistful of Viggo's hair. When they rattle the shutters again, the whole alley goes dark.

:::

Orlando had produced more candles, from where Viggo couldn't say. His dresser looks like an altar, complete with offerings: bottles of liquor from room service, cigarettes, loose change. Viggo lets his cigarette balance on his lower lip, his breath so steady and content that the column of ash runs almost all the way to the filter; Orlando straddles him, reaches out with a cupped hand to catch the ashes when they fall.

 _Don't go this time._ He runs a knuckle down Orlando's thigh. They've fucked twice since ten pm, have drank and sweated and spit and bitten until Viggo was sure he was going to pass out, from the sex, the rum, the heat.

The candlelight shadows make a zoetrope of Orlando's skin. Viggo shakes his head on the pillow, and Orlando smiles.

"What are you thinking?"

Viggo shrugs awkwardly, trails his hand back up to trace along Orlando's hip bone. "You've got a scar here, too," he murmurs.

"I was stabbed," Orlando answers frankly. He reaches for the cigarettes on the nightstand, lights one with Viggo's lighter. "Run through, actually, from here-" He twists, and Viggo notices, for the first time, the knot of scar tissue at the base of Orlando's spine. "-to here." He settles back down onto Viggo's hips, rubs at the mark on his belly.

"Fucking Christ." Viggo blinks. "What-"

"It was... a fight I had no business being involved in." Orlando takes a long drag on the cigarette, leans and taps his ash into the dish. His free hand roves down Viggo's torso, over Viggo's own scars. "Fair is fair, isn't it?"

Viggo can't help laughing, a brutally bitter sound even to his own ears. "Yeah. A fight I had no business being involved in. That is... Yeah. That's right." He holds his hand up; Orlando bypasses it entirely and presses the cigarette to Viggo's lips.

"What happened?" Orlando's voice is as gentle as his touch, his fingertips tracing and retracing the scars.

"Shot." Saying it is easier than he thought it would be. "On assignment, oh God, um. Years ago now. Years ago. Grozny. We tried to-" _We tried to get as close to death as we could, tried to take its picture, too, to capture its steel eyes and sharp teeth_. Viggo shakes his head again. "We tried to keep up with the rebels, the militants. Fucking war zones, you know, I'd. I'd done it a dozen times, more, I used be. I used to be some kinda good photographer."

Orlando nods and crushes out the cigarette, sits back and puts both hands on Viggo's chest. His palms are hot against Viggo's skin.

"And it was probably the fact that it was assfucking cold that saved my life. See, there was a. I. I." _He was black-eyed gorgeous and he spoke English with a little lisp and he was fucking fearless, right to the end. Right to the goddamn end._ "I was living with a group of the militia, you know, they let some of us, they didn't trust us but you bribed and you traded and you got your shots. You got... And one of the guys, he. He. You know, you never go after anyone. It's the rules. No matter what. You take the pictures and you don't go-"

He has closed his eyes at some point without even realizing it; Orlando's lips on his are a welcome shock. Viggo opens his mouth, breathes in Orlando's humid breath.

"Did you love him?" Orlando murmurs against his lips.

Viggo inhales sharply through his nose. "He went down across the park, and I ran, and you never run, not in a firefight, you never fucking run, and I. All I remember after that is watching the snow turn red. And after that, nothing. White, red, black. Done."

He can feel Orlando's cheek against his, can feel hot wetness tracking across his cheek, but they aren't his own tears. His eyes flutter open.

"I-" he begins, but Orlando pulls back just a bit, stops him with a finger to his lips.

"You lived," Orlando whispers fiercely. "You lived."

:::

He sleeps all morning and well into the afternoon, black and deep and dreamless. The heat of the day finally wakes him, the sheet sticking to his hips, the humidity heavy on his chest. Viggo rolls onto his back and smokes a cigarette or three; he dials up the kitchen and has a pot of coffee delivered before he crawls into the tub and sits there for nearly an hour, turning the shower up as hot as he can stand and letting the spray pound into his shoulders.

The sun rose at just after six in the morning; it's after five in the evening by the time he starts to feel bound to the earth again.

:::

He gets a burger and a beer at a bar on Esplanade, thinks about wandering down Chartres toward the warehouse but there's no point, nobody will be there at this hour, so he heads southeast on Royal instead. Someone has left a bouquet of white roses on the step at number 1127; two blocks down he can hear a slide guitar moan from behind a courtyard gate. He looks at his watch, at the date, and realizes that apart from the two visits to the docklands he hasn't been out of the Quarter in almost three weeks.

Viggo has absorbed the geography the way that his skin has absorbed the sun; his feet pass over cobbles to bricks to pavement and back again without stumbling. He nods to old men with walking sticks and they nod back. He gets stopped for a light three times, for directions, once. Go down this street to the next block, that'll be St Ann. Turn right. The next street you hit will be Bourbon, see, you're not lost at all. The Laveau Museum is right there. Can't miss it.

In Pirate's Alley they are replacing the bulbs in the lamps. He puts his head down and keeps on toward the river.

The boys surprise him, call him out by name from across Jackson Square. They're passing a bottle in the waning sun, sprawled out over each other with a demonstrable lack of boundaries. Viggo drops down by them, drops his pack of cigarettes on the grass as a goodwill offering.

Dom licks his finger and sticks it in Elijah's ear. Elijah stifles a shriek. Billy rolls his eyes.

"Good to see ya, mate," Dom says, dropping back onto his elbows. Elijah's head on his belly rises and falls ever so slightly with Dom's breaths.

"We did wonder," Billy says. He snags a cigarette, hands the bottle over to Viggo, who takes a hefty swallow of what proves to be Scotch.

"Took the day off." Viggo shrugs, lights his own smoke.

"Himself had you up late, then." Billy's eyes twinkle, and Viggo feels the corner of his mouth fighting to turn up.

"Up, down, sideways..." he drawls, and the boys whoop with laughter.

"Kinky bugger," Dom approves. He takes the cigarette from Billy, who flops back down, kitty-corner, on Elijah's legs.

Viggo stretches out on his side, propping his head on his elbow, and considers. The sky is going pink already. "You guys are all pretty tight with Orlando."

"Shhyeah," Elijah snorts. "Keen journalistic observer, here. Ow." He rubs where Billy pinched him.

"Orlando was the first person I met in America," Billy says after a pause. "Oh, that's about... two? No, three years ago."

Viggo nods, pokes his cigarette out in the dirt.

"Two and a half," Dom says. He reaches for the bottle and takes a long pull. "For me, I mean."

"Seven years." Elijah's voice is gone soft and rough, unlike anything Viggo's heard from him yet. "I've been in New Orleans seven years."

" _And pleasant is the fairy land_ ," Billy intones, " _but an eerie tale to tell. Ay at the end of seven years, we pay a tiend to hell._ "

Viggo feels the back of his neck prickle. In the silence he hears the distant chime of church bells.

"Bloody Christ, Bills, that's morbid." The usual cheer in Dom's voice is shaky. "Hit him for me, Lij. I can't reach."

Elijah flicks his middle finger at the top of Billy's head and Billy snorts. The chill passes.

"Yeah, so. Orlando was the first person I met here. Walked right up to me on Bourbon Street and hugged me." Billy laughs.

"Hugged you? What'd you do?"

"Punched the mad bastard in the face, 'course." Billy shakes his head, feels around on the grass for the cigarettes. Viggo grins, knocks the pack toward him. "Ta. And he bought me a drink and I don't think I'd ever had rum before, you know, not a real hot drink in Glasgow. Pissed as a fish by the end of the night, but Orlando... Orlando looks after people. He's good at it."

"Why New Orleans?" Viggo shrugs. "Especially you and Dom. And Orlando, for that matter. What was so... what was so compelling, I guess, that you crossed an ocean and never left?"

Dom holds out two fingers; Billy passes the cigarette back and up without even looking.

"Came for the party," Dom says, smoke curling up from his lips as he speaks. "Got rolled, like a fuckin' idiot, and I had nothing. No money, no ID, couldn't even get on the plane without my passport and my ticket. It all went pretty fuckin' wrong."

Viggo shakes his head. "You couldn't call someone? Family? Even the British authorities?"

"Nah, couldn't've. Wasn't. Isn't anybody I cared to ask for help. And I was in a bad way, you know?"

"How's that?"

"Got a touch fucked up," Billy fills in. He sits up, tucks his feet under him. "Orlando and I... we found Dommie. They weren't too kind to him."

"So that's how you met."

"Orlando is the patron saint of lost causes. Fuck that Jude guy." Elijah's voice is gone sharp again. "When Livvie was bleeding to death, after that fucking... shit, well, she never shoulda, but anyway, what was she gonna do? And the motherfucking pimp... If she hadn't've called Orlando, I mean, he carried her to the fucking hospital. From fucking _Treme_."

Viggo nods slowly, reaches for the Scotch and takes another swallow. It goes down hot and razor-edged. "What did he save _you_ from?" he asks, and Billy smiles.

"Myself."

Dom sits up, dislodging Elijah, who wriggles to one side when Billy turns. Dom kneels and cups Billy's face, and Viggo looks away. The moment is not for him.

:::

He leaves the boys there together as the sun sets, wanders for nearly an hour until he finds Orlando on the stairs. Viggo sits beside him without speaking; Orlando puts his hand on Viggo's knee and squeezes.

"I love this river," he says after a while, after the silence has grown thick and humid. "It's like blood, a huge thick artery keeping this city alive."

"You love the _city_ ," Viggo corrects.

Orlando turns his head and smiles. "Yeah. I do. I love everything about it. How could I not? It's my home. And you love it too, I can tell. I can always tell." He brushes the corner of Viggo's mouth with his lips; Viggo tries to lean into the kiss but Orlando pulls just out of reach.

"Please." Viggo swallows hard; his whole body aches with want. "Please."

"Do you trust me yet?" Orlando's breath tickles against Viggo's lips.

"I think so." He blinks.

"Enough to let me fuck you?"

Heat blooms in the pit of Viggo's stomach, burns up to his lungs, leaving his voice raw and blistered. "Yeah..."

"Yeah?" Orlando's eyes are serious, his hand on Viggo's knee stroking gently. "Cos I want that." A quick kiss. "I want that a lot. I like you under me." Another, a blazing flicker of tongue. "And I like it when you beg me."

Viggo sighs, his breath and his hands equally shaky. "Do I need to beg you?"

Orlando smiles. "Do I need to answer?"

:::

"Mm, you feel... Mm. How long has...?"

_They followed the tracks again, followed the river, while sweat trailed down Viggo's spine and Orlando walked backward along the rail, arms held out for balance._

"Uh. A year? A little-oh-more? I. Oh. Oh fuck. I don't remember."

_The air was still and stifling, the river smelled strong and close. Orlando's smile flashed and glittered in the moonlight._

"Mustn't have been very. Good. Then. Ah. Good."

_When the trains came again, he had no fear._

"Guess... No. Just... trying to get near to... something."

_When the door clanged shut, the candles flared to life, scores of shimmering flames covering the floor, only for a path to the middle door._

"You can get near to me. You _are_ near to me."

_Orlando's touch was constant and sure, Viggo's hands were shaky and rough, but there in the warm shadows, everything becomes nothing, nothing becomes the world._

"I. Is this, is it what you wanted? You said-"

"Hmm?"

The sound vibrates against Viggo's lips. He twists down onto Orlando's cock, his head thrown back. Sweat stings his eyes.

"You said, one thing. You asked, I. I promised, one thing. To do. For you."

Orlando's teeth graze over Viggo's throat, his hands burn like iron cuffs around Viggo's wrists. Orlando fucks him with infinitesimal slowness, each heavy drag of his cock feeling like hours. Viggo's breath turns to dust in his lungs.

"This. This is not. That." Orlando shudders, shoves hard. Viggo's spine curves. Their sweaty bellies stick and cling for a moment before parting.

"No?" Viggo can taste salt at the corners of his lips.

"No. If... if it was... wasn't. Fuck. Fuck."

"Oh."

The candles on the table flare blue; Orlando trembles and whines. Viggo crumbles into completion.

_He had no fear._

Orlando stretches out on his belly, pillows his cheek in the crook of his arm. Viggo's hand completes the curve of his skull; his thumb strokes the soft short hairs at his temple.

"This isn't part of the deal. Our deal." Orlando's breaths are growing more and more shallow, his eyelids flutter. The glowing hands of Viggo's watch are set at ten and three.

Viggo edges closer, until the only thing between their lips are two thin membranes of skin. Orlando's kiss is sweet with languor.

"What do you mean?" Viggo's whisper seems to shake the earth.

"I didn't bargain for this," Orlando mumbles sleepily. His wings shiver when he rolls his shoulders. "Not for this."

:::

It's still dark when Viggo wakes; he knows he can't have slept long, but he can feel the heat of Orlando's body beside him, the whisper of Orlando's breath against his shoulder. He closes his eyes.

He drifts into a dream the colour of ink; when he wakes again it is to a burst of bright on the other side of his eyelids. His back is cold. Viggo blinks; Orlando shakes out the match.

"It's nearly morning," Orlando murmurs when he slips between the sheets, when he fits himself along Viggo's back, his hands and hips already finding what they seek.

"Yeah." Viggo twists and covers his eyes with his arm to block out the candlelight. His chin scrapes the pillowcase.

Orlando doesn't ask this time and it doesn't matter, Viggo would have said yes anyway. The fuck is a gently brutal deconstruction, and afterward Viggo feels turned inside out, feels like Orlando has read every secret in his guts.

He rolls on his back, sits up to watch Orlando dressing. In the candlelight his coat seems to be the colour of blood.

"Don't go." Meant to be a whisper, it instead seems to ring through the room.

Orlando shakes his head, but he sits on the edge of the bed, pulls up the sheet and then the blanket over Viggo's lap, tucks them in warmly around Viggo's waist.

"Don't go."

"Shh." Orlando leans in, his kiss soft and unhurried. He presses Viggo back down with his weight, stretches out alongside, murmuring gentling noises against Viggo's throat. The wool of his coat scratches. Viggo clings to the sleeve.

"I'll stay 'til you sleep, all right?" Orlando's lips are smooth and warm. "Go to sleep."

He fights it until he can see a bit of pale light in the high window, a bit of pink and gold illuminating the curve of Orlando's skull. He remembers Orlando's stillness in that first sunrise. He remembers moving with Orlando in the dark. He remembers-.

:::

Barking wakes him; he squints at his watch to find he's slept away another day, and can't find it in himself to regret it too deeply. Sunset has been coming around seven-thirty; it's just after four and the warehouse is full of dusty late afternoon sunbeams.

He finds Elijah sprawled in one of the chairs, throwing a ball of rags for a floppy creature that may or may not be a beagle. She tears after the ball in a frantic flap of ears and tail, snatches it up and spends a second shaking it into submission before flailing back to Elijah and dumping it in his lap with a proud yip. Elijah laughs, and the dog barks. He throws the ball into the air and the dog goes about a yard before she whirls, nails scraping the cement, and comes back at him.

Elijah laughs again, shakes the ball at her. She feints a snap of teeth; he holds the ball out of reach for a moment, making the dog bounce and whine before he heaves it almost the whole length of the warehouse. The dog takes off, ears pin wheeling as she goes.

"Mornin'," Elijah says without looking up. He claps his hands for the dog. "Jeudi! C'mon, girl!"

She tears off a piece of rag, flops down and starts chewing on it. Elijah snorts, shakes his head.

"Do you have a dog, Viggo?"

"Yeah, I did." He perches on the arm of the chair next to Elijah's. "She died, um. Last fall. May I?"

"Free country." Elijah shrugs, works one thumbnail between his bottom front teeth. "What happened to your dog?"

"She was old. She was sick." Viggo pats his pockets, finds the end of a soft-pack, and offers the cigarette to Elijah.

He waves it off. "What was her name? Did you have her put down?" Elijah turns in the chair to face Viggo, tucks his sneakered feet up under him. He hugs his elbows. "What was wrong with her?"

Viggo swallows, busies himself with his cigarette if only for a respite from the intensity of Elijah's eyes. "Um, Maggie. Her name was Maggie, and she was a Golden Retriever, I. I'd had her since she was a puppy, and she was, uh, she got tumors, in her stomach." He takes a long drag, brings his own feet up off the floor.

"That's sad."

"I gave her morphine." Viggo rubs his knuckles across his lips. "So she could sleep, and a little more, so..."

"Yeah." Elijah puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles sharply; Jeudi comes running with the rag ball, launches herself into his lap. He pets her, strokes her head and her ears and her neck; the dog curls and settles, drops the ball in favor of propping her head on the armrest. "Good girl," he murmurs. "Good girl."

Viggo leans and stretches, he can just reach the dog's head. He rubs one finger between her eyes, and she makes a contented whuff.

"I'm glad you like dogs," Elijah says after a bit. He moves from his thumb to his right middle finger, chewing almost absently. "Orlando collects strays."

"In more ways than one."

"Obviously." Elijah's mouth twists. "But the dogs come to him, they... they just know. They know he's a good person."

"I know." He thinks he knows. He wants to believe that he knows.

"If you hurt him, I'll fucking kill you myself."

"I know." This much, at least, Viggo is sure of. His cigarette is hot near his fingers; he takes a last token drag that burns his lips before leaning down and rubbing the thing out on the floor. "How do I-" He stops.

"How do you what?"

Viggo shrugs. "I want to convince you that I don't mean any harm."

"It's not that easy." Elijah's voice is harsh; Jeudi shifts in his lap. "I can't... I'm not like Orlando or Livvie, I can't just _know_ about people. And Dom and Billy, they just fucking give it away. I can't. I won't."

"That's okay." Viggo holds up his hands, surrendering. "I'm not asking anything of you."

Ring finger now, and Elijah's hand shakes as he bites and worries at the nail. "Whatever I tell you, you'll put it in your book."

"Maybe. Not if you ask me not to." He thinks of the sheets upon sheets of prints, of Elijah's face, Elijah's eyes, with no story to explain their haunting. He would scrap every last one for just a moment of trust.

The silence is a battlefield. Viggo refuses to step any farther, not knowing where the mines are.

Finally, Elijah nods. "Maybe. Maybe I'll think about it. I don't. Maybe."

"It's your choice," Viggo says softly.

Elijah rolls his shoulders, tears his cuticle off with a jerk of his teeth. "Would you believe me if I told you everything? Or would you think I was trying to shock you?" Challenging now.

"I'd believe you, no matter how shocking."

"What's the worst thing that ever happened to you?"

"I got shot for somebody. He died. I didn't."

Elijah blinks. "That's pretty bad." He sounds vaguely impressed.

"I thought so."

"It's not the worst thing ever, but it's bad."

"It was the worst thing that ever happened to _me_." Viggo's mouth is gone dry.

"But not the worst thing ever."

"Probably not."

"No, it's really fucking not. Do you wanna know what's the worst thing ever?" Elijah sits forward; the dog spills to the floor and looks up at him with accusing dark eyes. He doesn't even notice, white-knuckled hands gripping the armrest. "The worst thing ever is not my stepdad fucking me up the ass from the time I was seven, and it wasn't being arrested for killing the motherfucker when I was thirteen. It wasn't the trial, it wasn't the shrinks, it wasn't the cops and the judge and fucking spending four months in that tiny little room, it was even after it was all done, even after they said yeah, I was defending myself and-and-they said I could go home, right, and the worst thing ever was that my mother _still didn't believe me_. The worst thing ever was telling the truth and _she didn't believe me_."

Elijah's voice has fallen to a place just above a whisper; a jagged broken tone filled with tears that Viggo is sure will never fall. He wishes he could cry for Elijah, take it from him and wash it away. He swallows hard.

"So you ran."

"So I ran." Elijah wipes his nose with the back of his wrist.

"I'm not going to say I know what... I don't know." Viggo pats his pockets, remembers belatedly that he smoked his last cigarette. "And I'm not gonna say I'm sorry, or I understand."

Elijah nods, digs down between the seat cushion and the arm and produces a battered Winston hard pack. "Here." He pulls one out and passes it over.

It is the first time that Elijah's offered him anything.

:::

Orlando arrives trailed by a pack of dogs. Viggo recognizes them all, but the days jumble in his head. Samedi comes to him immediately, butts her head into his side.

"Yeah, it's definitely your smell," Elijah snorts.

Viggo runs his fingers into Samedi's silky ruff. "Maybe we knew each other in another life."

Orlando makes an amused noise. "Maybe she just sees better than most. Samedi. _Allez. Va te coucher_." He points at the panting pile near the doorway; she turns on her heel and goes to flop with the others.

"I'm outta here." Elijah levers himself up out of his chair. "Dom and Billy are-?"

"Waiting for you." Orlando smiles. He crooks a finger at Elijah and Elijah goes, wraps his arms tightly around Orlando's waist. Orlando cups the back of his head, holds him just as fiercely. "Hey, _cher_ , hey. Everything is okay. I promise."

Elijah mumbles something that Viggo can't make out; he looks away. He's intruding again, as ever; he's not part of this moment, not part of this world, and nothing, not even Orlando's blessing, can make him be.

When Elijah goes he flips a hand at Viggo, but he kisses Orlando on the cheek. He whistles for the dogs as he goes.

"He'll come 'round to you." Orlando says, watches the dogs follow Elijah out. The door clangs shut. Orlando saunters over, settles on top of Viggo in the chair.

"We talked." His hands come to rest on Orlando's hips.

"That's very good." Orlando presses his nose behind Viggo's ear, inhales deeply. "Elijah's mad, you smell fantastic."

Viggo grunts, nods and their foreheads bash together. Orlando laughs, rocks down again more firmly.

"You stayed all day."

"Yeah." He opens his mouth for a kiss; Orlando leans back, just out of easy reach. "Please."

His reward is brief and achingly hot.

"Are you staying all night as well?" Orlando mouths at Viggo's jaw.

"Yeah. Stay." Both an answer and a demand.

"Come walk with me for a while." Orlando flicks his tongue over Viggo's lips. Viggo moans.

"I want-"

"In good time, love." Orlando tilts his head to one side, a faintly pleased expression on his face. "Come walk with me."

"Where?"

"Everywhere. Nowhere."

"I want to ask you things." Viggo looks down, looks to his knuckle tracing the line of Orlando's collarbone, just inside his shirt.

"I said you could." Orlando's fingers whisper over the back of Viggo's hand. "Ask me anything."

Viggo swallows, rests his forehead against Orlando's shoulder for a moment before looking up. Orlando's eyes are dark with makeup, and Viggo brings both hands up, wipes under Orlando's eyes with his thumbs. Orlando presses into the touch, and Viggo repeats it, thumbs coming away black. He wipes them on his jeans, and this time ghosts his thumbs over Orlando's closed eyes.

"Ask me anything," Orlando repeats, his voice a curl of smoke, his eyes soft and vulnerable under Viggo's hands.

"I'm. I'm trying to find the right questions."

Orlando catches Viggo's wrists, pulls his hands back from his eyes. "Come walk with me," he says a third time, and punctuates it with a humid kiss. "There are no answers in here."

Orlando goes over the fence in a single fluid swing and Viggo follows without even considering, his boots crunching broken glass when he lands. The next step is onto soft earth, though, the next into knee-high grass. The thin light of the waning moon silvers the crosses on the church towers; the statue in the middle of the garden seems to hover above its pedestal.

" _Ave Maria_." Orlando stops just short of the statue, touches his forehead in salutation.

Viggo shivers. The wind off the river, nothing more. The grass shushes against his jeans as he draws closer; there are two broken marble posts nearly hidden in front of the statue and he sees them just in time to avoid falling. The wind blows harder, the tails of Orlando's jacket flap like banners. Viggo shoves his hands in his pockets.

" _Ave Maria, gratia plena,_ " Orlando murmurs, going to his knees. He bows his head, kisses her feet. " _Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tu-_ Ah-ha. Gotcha."

There is a click, and a creak; Viggo steps forward and squints. Orlando lifts the small trapdoor in the flagstones, props it with one elbow and pulls out two bottles. He raises one to Viggo, teeth flashing in a grin.

"The Lord provides."

:::

Later, when the doors open under Orlando's touch, when the stars wheel and weep above the broken vault, they reconsecrate the stones of the nave with the holiest blasphemy.

:::

The relentless flickering of the fire makes Viggo nearly nauseous; he plants his feet more firmly on the floor, tries to focus anywhere else to stop the spinning. Orlando is sprawled like Bacchus in his chair, legs spread wide, his bare torso gleaming with sweat. Viggo licks his lips.

They have talked for an age since stumbling back here, an age and again; it seems to Viggo that he is always on the verge of understanding, of _seeing_ , but then comprehension will fly away like ash from the fire, spiralling out of reach. He closes his hand on empty air. Orlando smiles.

"It's May Eve, love. Hours to go before we sleep."

Viggo nods. "Yeah." When he breathes in the air is heavy and dull in his throat.

"You need some water? Yeah." Orlando gets up and disappears, comes back with a fruit jar full of cold water. He settles in Viggo's lap, puts the drink to Viggo's lips. "Here."

Viggo drinks, lets his head fall back against one of the wings of the chair. His fingers tuck down the back of Orlando's jeans, holding on for at least sense of balance. "I'm okay," he mumbles.

"I forget what a bloody cheap date you are." Orlando's fingertips smooth over Viggo's brow. His touch is as disorienting as the rum.

The clang and clatter of the opening door sounds very far away; they turn slowly, Viggo blinking to focus, Orlando already grinning. He presses a kiss to Viggo's temple, presses the jar into his hand.

" _Ma jolie_."

Orlando slides an arm around Livvie's waist, brings her in close to kiss her cheek. He whispers in her ear; she slaps at his shoulder. He laughs, and pulls her backward toward the fire, toward the chairs.

Viggo fumbles a cigarette to his lips and lights it.

It's a little bit like watching a play from the orchestra pit, being so close to the action and yet not a part of it. He can see them clearly, he can hear them clearly, but what is happening has nothing to do with him. Or everything. He's sober enough to know he's too drunk to tell the difference.

"Come, come, c'mon, lovely girl... you've got what I need."

Their kiss is obscene and perfect. Hair falls like black eels through Orlando's fingers; bells jingle and chime as they turn together, tumble down into the big chair together.

"Orlando-"

"Yeah, _petite_."

Her legs are long and creamy when he pushes up her dress; Orlando's hands are dark against her thighs. The metal sound of a zipper. The wet sound of a kiss. Viggo's cigarette burns his fingers and falls to the floor.

"Tell me-"

"Or-Orlando. No. Oh."

The long line of her throat, the heavy veil of her hair. The wide curve of Orlando's lips, the dark flash of his eyes. Her silhouette is like a violin in the firelight.

"You saw something, didn't you?"

"Don't."

"Fuck-"

"Just-"

"Okay."

Livvie sobs when she comes; Orlando doesn't make a sound. Viggo struggles to make sense of what he's seeing, to piece together the images and the words and find a pattern, find logic. He reaches out again; there is nothing to hold on to.

The fire snaps and pops, throwing up a shower of sparks. Viggo closes his eyes.

"Don't ask me, Orlando. You know I'll tell you."

Viggo looks again. Orlando is tucking her hair back behind her ears, is pulling up and straightening the thin straps of her dress. She is shaking her head, teeth in her lower lip. He smoothes his thumb across her cheek.

"It's fine," he husks. "It's all right."

"No. If you love him, don't ask me."

"I'm asking _because_ I love him, _petite_."

Livvie turns her head for a moment, and Viggo can see bright tracks on her cheeks. The room whirls when he leans forward, straining to hear what she whispers in Orlando's ear. Orlando's eyes flutter closed, his head bows; Viggo can see Livvie's lips moving but there is no sound, nothing, not even the crackle of the fire, nothing, until Orlando shakes his head.

The warehouse shakes, dust showers from the ceiling; the thunder sounds like cannon fire. One. Two. In the brief illumination from the lightning Orlando is like a gargoyle, his face twisted with rage and pain.

"Get the fuck out." He starts to stand; Livvie slides, flails for balance and lands on her knees. She winces, clambers to her feet.

"I told you not to ask!" she screams at him, stomping her bare foot. The bells jingle again. Thunder. Lightning. Orlando slaps her; she spits blood in his face, and he wipes it away with the back of his hand.

"Go." He points to the door. "Go."

Livvie shakes her head. "Not even you can make this end differently, _King_. Not even you."

The next thunderclap is right on top of them, the next lightning strike makes the hair stand up on the back of Viggo's neck. He squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for it, waiting-

"Hey, love. Hey. You fell asleep on me." Orlando's hands are warm on Viggo's cheeks; he is heavy and loose-limbed in Viggo's lap. The fire crackles merrily; he can hear rain on the roof.

"Sorry." He turns his face into Orlando's palm, kisses the base of his thumb. "You and your goddamn rum."

Orlando laughs, bumps their noses together. "Come to bed, I'll sober you up."

Viggo smiles against Orlando's cheek. "In a minute. I'm comfortable."

:::

_May 2001_

There is a scrap of blue paper tucked in among the candles, half a flier for a crawfish boil at St. Augustine's- _All the heads you can suck!_ -with a barely legible pencil scrawl on the back. Viggo traces over the loops of the letters with his fingertip.

_find you ltr nr. st lous  
yrs O._

It's going on three in the afternoon. He folds the paper in half, and half again, and tucks it in his left front pocket before he goes.

:::

There are three messages waiting at the front desk, one for each day that Viggo has been gone, all with Bean's name and New York number on the pink slip.

The first requests a return call at his convenience.

The second requests a return call urgently.

The third reads _Mr. Mortensen, I'm sorry I can't write down everything your caller asked me to, I'll be fired. - Paige (morning desk)_

Viggo crumples the slips and shoves them in his right back pocket.

:::

He spends nearly an hour in the shower, head braced on his forearm while the spray pounds out kinks he doesn't remember getting. He blinks, beads of water sitting heavy on his eyelashes, the steam making his skin feel thin and prickly.

He knows he shouldn't be getting used to this, to fucking all night and sleeping all day. He knows he shouldn't be taking Orlando's interest, Orlando's... affection, for granted. The heat of his mouth, or the weight of his hands: they can't be owned, only borrowed. He knows. He knows.

Viggo wrenches off the water; the taps shriek and the showerhead spits in his eye.

What he needs is more sleep. That's all.

When he wakes from his nap he rings Bean back, and feels disgustingly relieved when the line clicks over to voicemail. Viggo hangs up without leaving a message.

:::

Livvie shouts to him from the other end of Père Antoine; when he turns down the alley she hurries to catch his elbow, her ankle bells jingling with bright silver music.

"There you are," she says with a breathless buss of his cheek. "I was hoping you'd come down today, I wanted to talk to you."

Viggo tucks her hand into the crook of his arm. "Just having a ramble before I meet Orlando... Hey." Her lip is split; he reaches up and catches her chin. "You okay?"

She pulls away, half smiling, half wincing. "I'm okay. You want to get some coffee? Let's go sit at the café."

They find a table in the same sunny corner as the first time, but Livvie sits closer, watching him with quick bright eyes. She gets a cup of tea, plays with the teabag packet while Viggo fixes his coffee.

"What's on your mind?" he prompts.

She shrugs. "I don't know if you-. Well. You were there. I'm sorry, I guess I. I just wanted to say I'm sorry for last night's whole... scene. Orlando can be kind of a shit sometimes, and I-"

Viggo hears bells. He blinks. "What are you talking about?"

"It's just that he, that we, he-what?"

"What are you talking about?" Bells. Livvie's ankle bells.

She shifts in her chair, twists a lock of hair around her finger. "You don't remember."

There's nothing to remember. They'd gotten drunk in the garden with the Virgin, they'd rolled around the dusty marble floor of the church. They'd wandered back to the warehouse, he'd been talking to Orlando and he dozed off. Or passed out a little. Either way, when Orlando woke him they went back to bed and he fucked Orlando until the sun came up.

There's nothing to remember.

"Fuck." Livvie sits back, tugs harder on her hair. "Fuck him, I can't believe he-" She shakes her head. "Viggo, I'm sorry. I'm... I thought you saw, but. But. But yeah, you were pretty out of it, now that I think-"

His cup clatters into its saucer. "Saw what?" There's nothing. He fell asleep. He _remembers_ that he fell asleep.

She licks over the wound on her lip. "I. I shouldn't have said anything, now you're upset. It wasn't anything, okay? Look, I'll go."

The napkin dispenser knocks over when he grabs her wrist; the people at the nearest tables turn and stare. "Please."

"It's nothing. Really" She pulls away, shaking her head. "I came to talk to Orlando, we had an argument, and you were really drunk. I thought you must remember but you don't, and that's... okay. That's all."

Viggo stands up, bangs the edge of the table with his thighs. The cups and silverware dance. "Livvie."

"Don't."

"Is that what-your, your lip? Did he hit you?"

"You-no. No, Viggo, you-" She looks around the packed café, looks over her shoulder down the street. "Not here. Just. I'll. Not here."

She's right, not here. Bow-tied waiters shoulder past with their trays. At the next table a fat man in a Hawaiian shirt is talking about strippers to three Japanese businessmen. A cop on horseback reins in by the entrance for a moment before turning back toward the marketplace.

"Come down to the stairs with me," he murmurs. He reaches for her again but she recoils; Viggo puts his hands up, palms out. No harm meant. Nothing up my sleeve. "I'm sorry."

Livvie shakes her head, but she says yes, okay; she says nothing more until they are down by the water, away from the people. Viggo puts polite space between them, sits sideways to watch her fold herself up: knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, face half-hidden by her hair.

"I-"

"Listen, I-"

"Sorry."

"Sorry." Viggo itches at his stubble. "Go on."

Livvie puts her chin on her knee, forces up the corners of her mouth. "I was going to say that I don't think it's what you think it is. And ask you, don't... don't be angry with Orlando. We had a disagreement. Difference of opinion, I guess."

"I don't _remember_." Viggo pounds his fist on the wooden stair. It thuds hollowly; it hurts. He stares at the river. "I. Fuck."

"It's easy to stop counting drinks when Orlando is involved." This time Livvie's smile is genuine. "Billy says he has a goblin leg."

Viggo snorts. "Yeah. Yeah, something like that, it just. It pisses me off, I've never blacked out before in my life, shit, maybe I'm just getting old, but."

"But?" Livvie's fingers flick to her hair again. "But it's frightening, sure. I know. Really, I didn't realize, or I never would have said."

There is more. There is a lot more. Viggo watches her pick out a lock and start to plait it; when she gets to the end she knots the braid and picks out another to start.

"Ask Orlando," she says at last, when the silence has grown thick with the smell of the river and the sound of the waves. "If you want to know, he has to be the one to tell you."

Viggo reaches out, his fingertip just brushing her lips. _The bells. When she fell, the bells clinked and jangled and-._ He tries to find the rest of it, to read it in the line of her mouth, but she turns her head away, eyes shut against something he can't remember and she can't forget.

:::

He pulls Viggo into the shadows by the cathedral, shoves him with an unnecessary thump against the wall. Their hips remember each other; their mouths take a few moments to reacquaint. Orlando makes a soft whining noise when Viggo slides his hands up Orlando's back, his fingers drawing feathers by memory.

"If I can't fuck you inside the next ten minutes-" Orlando's voice is fierce against Viggo's ear.

"You'll what?" Viggo lets one hand drift down, and then back up again, this time between cotton and skin. Orlando breathes out hard through his nose.

"I'll do you right here. Fuck. Don't stop that."

Viggo rubs his thumb hard down the contour of Orlando's spine; Orlando's hips hitch against his. "I wanna talk to you."

"Mm. Nine minutes."

"I'm serious." Viggo's hands drop to Orlando's waist and still there.

"So am I." Orlando's eyes are fathomless. He steps back, and back again, his fists flexing. "What? What is so important?"

A clutch of young women walk by; they are obviously together but they are all talking on their cell phones. Viggo looks at the cobbles, looks at the shop window across the alley.

"Viggo."

He holds out his hand and Orlando takes it; his ring is cold against Viggo's fingers.

"Why did you hit Livvie?"

Orlando stares, his tongue flickering out between his lips. "Is that what you remember?" he husks.

Viggo pulls; Orlando stumbles closer. He squeezes Viggo's hand, but keeps the distance.

"I don't remember her coming to the warehouse. I don't remember you fighting. She told me that part."

"Oh." Orlando's thumb brushes across Viggo's palm. "Yeah. You. You passed out a bit, just then."

"Why did you hit her?" How _could_ you?

Orlando pulls this time, and Viggo goes; they collide hard, sway and spin. Viggo presses Orlando to the wall. Orlando shakes his head, cups Viggo's face.

"I'm asking you to tell me," Viggo whispers. Make me believe.

"She told me something I didn't want to hear." He wets his lips again. "And I was. I was so fucked off, I. I owe her an apology. Viggo. I."

"What? What could be so bad?"

The street noise fades into the distance, diminishes under the sound of blood rushing in Viggo's ears, the sound of Orlando's pained breaths.

"She said. She said give you up. She said you'd break my heart." Orlando sets his jaw; his hold on Viggo's face nearly hurting. He shakes his head violently. "And I said that wasn't possible."

"Is that what you believe?"

"I believe it's been forever since I fell, and yet here I am."

Viggo's shoulders sag; Orlando releases his grip only to pull Viggo in and they cling, faces pressed into each other's necks. Viggo feels like a child, like everything he once knew has been taken from him; here he must rely on faith alone.

" _Believe me_." Orlando's breath is hot against Viggo's ear.

He does.

:::

The faucet in the bathroom drizzles a rusty path down the back of the sink, the porcelain worn through to the metal. Viggo puts his candle down and twists the tap, listens for the clunk of the plumbing, three-two-one and the water comes, frigid and clear. He splashes his face, works at his sticky eyes with the heels of his hands; droplets hiss when they hit the hot wax in the saucer.

The mirror is streaked and spotted, one corner broken away. He touches his face, thinner than the last time he really looked, rough with two days' beard. His lips are swollen from Orlando's teeth, his eyes wide in the dim light.

He bends and sticks his whole head under the faucet to drench his hair, feels an icy rivulet run down his spine when he stands again. He wipes at his face, shoves his hair back, breathes in.

"Here."

Orlando startles him less and less; as it is his sudden appearances are never unwelcome. Viggo smiles at him in the mirror, takes the threadbare towel he's offering. "Thanks."

"Of course." Orlando rests his hands on Viggo's hips, licks away a drop of water from Viggo's shoulder. "Mm. Hm."

"It's late. Or early. Depends on how you look at it." Viggo leans back against Orlando's chest.

"You have grey hairs on your belly." Orlando's hands swipe over the area in question, his tone fascinated. "Or is that the light? I can't tell."

"No, I do." He rolls his shoulders, self-conscious. "God, I'm twice your age."

"Hah!" Orlando barks. "No. Not quite." He laps at Viggo's shoulder again, kisses the curve of Viggo's neck. "Come on, come back to bed. There's time yet."

"How old _are_ you?" Viggo covers Orlando's hand on his stomach, stills the jumpy flutter of Orlando's fingers.

"Old enough for this." Orlando pulls his hand free, slides it downward. "Come back to bed," he repeats, wraps Viggo's cock in warm fingers, his hips rocking in a soft urgent rhythm. "Come fuck me one more time."

Viggo drops the towel and turns.

:::

It's pouring when Viggo wakes around noon; the air is cool and still, the only sound the hammering of the rain on the roof. He pulls up the blankets that he and Orlando had kicked off in the night, burrows back down beneath them.

In the dream Orlando sits in the sun, his coat off and his sleeves rolled up; he leans back and turns his face to the sky. Sweat beads on his cheekbones and in the creases of his elbows, and when Viggo leans over for a kiss, it tastes like tears.

"Don't do it," Orlando whispers.

"What?" Viggo cups his jaw, brushes his thumb over Orlando's lips.

"Don't." He pulls away, shaking his head; when Viggo reaches for him again he finds he's holding Orlando's coat and nothing more.

The sky goes dark.

Viggo's eyes fly open, his heart pounding; it feels like the room is a yawning chasm behind him, like if he tries to roll onto his back he'll inadvertently find himself tumbling into the maw of something huge and vicious.

_Awake. You're awake._

He takes a deep breath and puts out a hand, eyes squeezed tightly shut, but it's only the bed after all. He turns over, hugs the pillow, and hopes the rain will lull him back to dreamlessness.

It's nearly four when he decides that he can't sleep anymore, when he shrugs into his clothes and pokes his head out to see that there's nobody in the main room. He calls out, but his voice only echoes; the dogs are missing as well, and he finds only a dead heap of ash in the fire barrel. Viggo shivers.

When he peeks behind Livvie's bead curtain he finds an empty but comfortable nest; a single twin mattress, two milk crates full of clothes. Against the far wall is a footlocker holding a small shrine, incense cones and saints' candles and plaster statues, bits of things that Viggo doesn't care to get close enough to identify. He backs out, considers the third room.

He has never seen anyone go in or out, but he is sure it must belong to the boys; it is the only explanation that makes any sense. Curiosity and dread war deep in his belly, and he isn't sure which is going to win out until he's already stepped into the little room.

The bed is big, a proper bed, too, neatly made with a faded and much-patched duvet. A rickety metal bookcase holds a small collection of folded clothes and large selection of paperbacks without covers.

There are three pillows on the bed, and one candle on the crate that serves as nightstand.

The sense of intrusion is nearly overwhelming. Viggo bows his head in apology to those absent before he leaves.

It's not raining too hard when Viggo goes out onto Mazant Street, it's only a little bit worse when he reaches Royal. The sky cracks and lightens; he counts Bartholomew, Alvar and Pauline before he gives up. There isn't a taxi in sight, he's soaked to the skin, and it's only a few hours 'til sunset. He spits rain and turns back.

Down Pauline to Chartres, Chartres to Mazant. The railroad tracks are on his right, and on his left is an empty lot. Viggo scrubs at his face, slogs to the next corner. The lot is no less vacant from this side, overgrown with weeds and dotted with rusted barrels.

"Fuck." He turns in a slow circle, trying to find a recognizable landmark; he can barely see for the rain, driving harder and harder with cold stinging drops. He wipes his face again, paces back two blocks, tries the approach again.

The rain roars in his ears. A train clatters slowly by, and he watches it disappear around the bend, its endlights blinking red as it goes.

"Mister?" The driver speaks to him from a window barely-open against the rain, the cab idling at the corner. "Need a cab, mister?"

Viggo shudders, his stomach both nauseous and shockingly empty. His teeth are chattering so he only nods, ducks into the cab as fast as he can. "S-s-sorry about your s-s-seats."

"S'all right, man, you look like ya got drowned before you got lost."

Viggo laughs, a sharp sound that surprises them both. "Something like that. Shit." He digs his wallet out, shoves a pair of twenties at the driver. "Canal, uh, Canal and Iberville."

The driver whistles as he pulls away from the curb. "You're far from home, man."

Viggo laughs again, and this time it sounds more than a little hysterical. "You got no idea."

:::

The passage from day to dark goes nearly unnoticed while the storm pounds on. Viggo paces his hotel room with a cigarette clamped between his teeth, wrapped in layers of flannel and denim in a vain effort to stop his shivering. He rings the desk again and again- _no sir, no-one's been in for you, no sir, no calls_ -he stands at the balcony doors and watches the water rise in the street below.

Six, seven. The rain slows to a drizzle, the drizzle too eventually dries.

Eight, nine. The stars are bright in the purple sky.

Ten. Viggo packs his camera bag and calls a cab, offers to pay double when the dispatcher says she ain't sending nobody to that part of Bywater at this time of night. She laughs.

"Dey's crazy and den there's you, man. No fucking way."

Royal is somewhat less soggy than Chartres or Decatur so he takes the higher ground, stubbornly putting one foot in front of the other, block after block. Gaslights flicker in the dull breeze; the people he meets duck out of his way with lowered eyes. The dealers on the corner of Clouet raise their hands in greeting; one salutes and calls out something that sounds like _Vive le roi!_

Viggo's shoulders come up but he keeps going; the last fucking thing he needs is to get knifed tonight. His mouth tastes sour; he pauses on the next corner to light a cigarette and it doesn't help the taste but steadies his nerves at least a little.

Desire, Gallier, Congress. A little white dog dashes through the intersection at Independence; he turns down Pauline to Chartres. The streets are empty here, the only sounds are of barges on the river, the distant rumble-clack of an approaching train. The shutters on the houses are barred. The wharf is still but for the rats.

Alvar, Bartholomew, Ma-.

Viggo stumbles to a stop.

The warehouse looms up on his left, and he can just make out the faintest flicker of light in the high windows. It's real. It's real and someone's inside and it's real and-fuck.

He flicks his cigarette away, checks his film and his battery power before lifting the camera to his eye. The street sign, first, to fix the location firmly on the map. The landmarks next, the train tracks, that blue house, that lone tree. Then the building itself; Viggo paces the perimeter, shoots every angle he can think of. There's no sound from inside, nothing but the ring of his boots against the pavement. He stops to light another cigarette.

"Hey!"

"JESUS." Viggo flattens himself back against the wall; his lighter clatters to the ground, his cigarette snaps between his fingers. "Fuck. Christ. Jesus."

Dom leans down and scoops up the lighter, holds it out. "Here."

Viggo takes it back, his fingers flexing around the smooth familiar steel; he tries not to pant with terror when he says thanks.

"No problem, mate," Dom says, but he shakes his head as he does. "What're you doing? Orlando's been out of his bloomin' mind looking for you."

"I-" Viggo stops. "I wanted some night shots. Of the neighborhood."

"Right, the book." Dom scratches his ear. "But seriously, Orlando's freaking out. He went by your hotel like an hour ago, and they said he just missed you, and so he's had us combing the fuckin' Quarter, nobody'd seen you." He flips a hand at the darkened street. "I was just headed up to Jimmy's for fags when I saw you. We just got back here."

"Orlando's here?" He sounds ridiculous, adolescent and overeager. Viggo fumbles another cigarette out of the pack, crams it in the corner of his mouth. He offers the pack to Dom, who takes one but waves off the light and sticks it behind his ear instead.

"Yeah, he's inside, I think he's like, planning to storm the Wyndham or something. I'm telling you man, I haven't seen him this rattled since, like. Ever."

There is something Dom isn't saying, he's telling the truth but not all of it. Viggo lights his cigarette, takes a long shuddering drag and pushes his questions, his fear, aside in favor of sating the need in his blood. "I'll go in, then."

Dom nods. "Yeah. Yeah, good plan, you-fuckin' bad neighborhood, isn't it? You shouldn't be walking around alone with all that gear."

There are footsteps on the other side of the street just then, two figures melting into the shadows. Viggo cracks his neck. "I can handle myself."

"Still I think-"

"Viggo?"

Orlando's voice is rough and shaky; Viggo turns toward the sound to see him standing on the corner, just out of the reach of the streetlight.

"Hey." The syllable sticks sideways in Viggo's throat; he shakes it free, steps toward Orlando. "Hey."

Orlando holds up his hand; Viggo reaches out and meets it, palm to palm. Their fingers fold together and Orlando pulls, just so, just enough, to close the distance.

The kohl around Orlando's eyes is smudged, runs in tracks down his cheeks. Viggo drops his cigarette, lifts his thumb to the black streaks and wipes slowly, carefully, up and away. Like the other morning Orlando doesn't move, only flutters his eyes closed, his breathing coming quick and shallow.

"Caught in the rain," Orlando whispers. He squeezes Viggo's hand.

Viggo reaches across, strokes away more black on Orlando's other cheek. "Me too."

"I thought you'd be here. You were supposed to be... I thought. I thought."

"I left and I-" It sounds absurd, now, here in the shadow of the very solid building. "I couldn't find my way back."

"Oh." Orlando turns his face up into Viggo's touch; Viggo strokes along Orlando's cheekbone, up over his temple. "That happens, it's-it's easy to lose your way down here."

"Yeah."

There is a cough, then retreating footsteps behind them.

"So I came here first, yeah? And you were gone, and I couldn't... I couldn't see you anywhere I went, and it's not-"

Viggo shakes his head. "Sorry-"

"-safe for you, some places, I don't-"

"-I just felt like I shouldn't hang around and then-"

"-want anything to happen to you, and you fucking scared me."

"-I tried to get back to you. I tried."

Orlando lets his weight fall forward, tips his head onto Viggo's shoulder; they are clinging to each other now, and it should feel strange, it should feel like too much, too raw, too soon. Viggo inhales the sweet flower scent behind Orlando's ear, brushes the spot with his lips.

"I can't protect you everywhere," Orlando says into the crease of Viggo's neck. "Not everyone keeps their word." His hands tighten on Viggo's shoulders.

"I waited at the hotel. I-"

"I should've-"

"-should've waited longer-"

"-gone there straightaway. Viggo." Orlando looks up, shakes his head. "I-"

He doesn't know what to say, he doesn't know how to take this. His knees are threatening to buckle; Orlando's fingers nearly hurting his arms. "What? You what?"

Orlando stares at him for a moment, breath hot and quivery against Viggo's lips. "Don't do it."

Recollection of his dream flares to life behind his eyes, the blood rushing to his cheeks burning like the imagined sun. "What?" he whispers.

"Don't break my heart." Orlando's smile is thin and watery, his sniff overdramatic. Viggo chokes on a laugh; laughing becomes a kiss. They eat other words from each other's mouths, and lick away the things best left unsaid.

:::

While Orlando sleeps, Viggo counts the rises and falls of his back, he follows the lines of his tattoos and scars with a fingertip just so close but never touching. In his mind he draws again and again the shape of Orlando's skull, the long bow of his spine, the curve of his ass. Viggo catalogues freckles and hairs; he articulates each muscle and bone.

Orlando's breath comes deep and easy now, his limbs loose and heavy. Viggo's whole body is still humming with the energy of their fucking, electricity crackling through his skin, churning in his stomach. When he closes his eyes and tries to recall everything about this body before him, the crease of that knee, the depth of that navel, the shape of that shoulder, he finds himself terrified that he's missing something, that he's forgetting the particular shade of a crucial inch of skin.

It can't last, no matter what they promise, no matter what they gasp in the dark. No matter what they want to believe. It isn't real, and when it fades and blows away, he will be left with-

_Don't do it._

There are at least twenty candles on the table but he cranks the aperture wide, sets the shutter speed down low. He's got high speed black and white in, it'll be a bit grainy, but-

_Don't._

Viggo checks the focus, steadies his hands with his elbows on his knees. There is only a foot between them, between Orlando's sleepy sprawl and Viggo's lens. There is only a moment to make the choice, and then there is only forward.

_Don't._

There is only forward, and there is no future.

_Click._

:::

"Hey. Hey."

A warm rough hand on Viggo's cheek; he turns into the touch, trying to distinguish dream from reality, his lips working but language still out of reach.

"Huh."

"C'mon. Come back to me."

"Hm? Hm." Viggo blinks. "Wha. Time?"

"Fourish." Orlando shifts and flops; they _oof_ in unison and Orlando laughs, settles the angles of his hipbones against the hollow of Viggo's stomach.

"About two hours, then." Viggo curves his hands over the small of Orlando's back.

Orlando shrugs, props himself on one elbow, trails the other hand along Viggo's forehead. He traces a shape there that feels like a star, the sweeping up at a rising angle, falling, rising, cutting across, falling again to close the circuit. Viggo wets his lips, his eyes crossing when he tries to follow the path of Orlando's fingertip on his face.

"'S why I woke you," Orlando says at length. "Never enough time, is there? Especially when dawn is dusk, and dusk is waking..." He makes three marks at the corner of Viggo's eye. "Smile for me?"

"What?" Viggo can't not obey. "What."

"These lines, just here. I love these lines. They're almost as nice as these." Orlando brackets Viggo's mouth, twice on each side. "Did you take any pictures today?"

His heart thumps once, painfully. "Yeah. Not. Not many, I. Some outside, tonight."

Orlando purses his lips; his thumb scrapes down Viggo's chin, into the divot there, then swoops back up the line of his jaw. "That's good," he murmurs. "Is it good?"

"Yeah, they're. I have a, mm. Kind of a thing, I always know, um. Oh."

Orlando has shifted his weight lower; he rocks just so and again, and again and so again. "Mm. What do you know?"

"Oh. I. I was gonna. Huh. Say that I always know what, um. Stop that."

"Really?" Orlando blinks, pulls his hand back to hover just above Viggo's nipple.

"No. Oh. Okay." Viggo bites his lip. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Oh, fuck you. Oh."

They snicker and shove and wriggle; Viggo tries to dump Orlando off but Orlando is all hard muscle under sweat-slick skin, he twists this way and that like a snake, laughing and biting and finally pinning Viggo back down. His grip on Viggo's wrists is just this side of too-hard.

"Stop?"

"No." Viggo shakes his head; his hair sounds loud against the sheet.

"What do you know?" Orlando's cock is hot in the crease of Viggo's hip.

"How, um, what a picture's going to look like, you know, before I print it. I never, I never question, I just... take it, and it always-please. Orlando."

Sweat drips from Orlando's forehead into Viggo's eyes, they are nose to nose and Orlando's fingers flex on Viggo's wrists. They both blink at once, they both breathe in and the kiss is a crash of blood and teeth.

"You're saying you always see exactly what you're going to get."

"Yeah. It's. It's my mediocre super power."

Orlando bites hard at Viggo's jaw; Viggo grunts, jerks his wrists in Orlando's grip.

"I ask too much of you." Orlando leans, pushes, leverages his weight and they rock, balanced perfectly. Viggo moans.

"No. No, not-"

"Think of everything you could. You could see. The pictures. The stories. All that you have seen, all that you will see." Orlando licks his lips again. "But even for that... I. I want-I want-I. I don't even care about your fucking book anymore."

 _Neither do I._ Viggo wrenches one hand free, cups the base of Orlando's head, his fingers skidding on the sweaty stubble there. Orlando makes a wet, hungry noise into the kiss, and Viggo rocks up, counts on his bulk and the element of surprise to carry him through. There is another battle for control, brief and mostly token - Viggo ends up sitting up, Orlando sitting on his thighs with one hand tight in Viggo's hair.

They breathe like long-distance runners, loud in the dark.

"What I want doesn't matter," Orlando whispers against Viggo's cheek.

"Of course it does." The idea makes him furious, and Orlando's headshake makes him even angrier. "Of _course_ it does."

"No." Orlando bows his head, rests it there on Viggo's shoulder. "No, you and I, we. We have promises to keep."

When Viggo closes his eyes he sees the candlelit curve of Orlando's back. He always knows his shot. Always.

"Yeah," he agrees. He kisses just below Orlando's ear. "Yeah, I know."

:::

When he leaves, still sleepless at mid-morning, the previous day's rain has all but burnt off, leaving a caramel sugar smell in the air and a trail of sweat down Viggo's spine. At the corner of Royal and Mazant he stops, feels something like a rip, something like a pop, something like nothing at all behind him.

He counts to nine, then at ten he keeps walking and does not look back.

:::

There is a black cab idling out front of his hotel; he catches the driver's eye with a wave and a fifty dollar bill.

"How much do you usually make in day?"

The driver shrugs, rolls his toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. "Depends. If dey tips is good, uhhhh. Maybe a hundred dollars? Wrong time of year for good tips."

"You wanna make two hundred today?" Viggo produces three more fifties.

The driver's toothpick snaps between his teeth.

:::

A half-hour after sunset he settles in, showered and shaved, at a table in the café; the coffee is still hot when Orlando flops into the empty chair and crams an entire beignet into his mouth. Viggo laughs.

"Hi."

"Fllgh." Orlando chews and swallows, leans across the table and plants a shameless confectionery kiss on Viggo's lips. "Hey. Did you get some sleep?"

Viggo licks away the sugar, swallows Orlando's taste beneath it. "Nah. I was busy today."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Viggo shifts side to side, picks up his coffee, sets it back down again.

"What have you been up to?" Orlando leans forward again, swipes his fingertip around the edge of the coffee cup and comes up with a stray drop of cream. He licks it off, then points at Viggo in mock accusation. "C'mon, out with it. You're all secretive and smiley, what is it?"

"I took-" He fumbles the portfolio out of his lap and up onto the table, bangs his knuckles in his anxiousness. "Fuck. Well, I. I took a couple pictures."

Orlando goes very still, his ringed finger left poised in midair, but at the same time it seems he is vibrating with energy. If his skin could throw sparks, Viggo is sure it would.

"Pictures. Of what?"

"What do you do during the day?" Viggo whispers. His hands twitch over the cover of the portfolio.

"That's my business." Orlando's answer is so sharp that Viggo has to hold back a wince.

"I'm sorry, I. Just. Something you said last night. This morning, I mean, it. I wanted to know because-"

"You don't need to know." Orlando's fist comes down onto the tabletop, not a slam but a definite punctuation mark. "Don't. Don't ask me for what is not yours, Viggo."

His cheeks are flaming, his guts have arranged themselves into a frigid knot somewhere up behind his lungs. "Look, I. I just wanted to give you this. I thought. Because. I thought. Fuck it, I. It's yours, anyway. Take it." He shoves the portfolio across the table, knocks the pastry plate to the ground. It breaks with a single pointed crack. "I'm sorry."

Viggo is well out of the market before he realizes he's going in the wrong direction; he turns with furious elbows, nearly hits a young couple walking behind him.

"Son of-sorry."

Whatever just happened, it isn't good; he stops, clenches his fist in his hair. Fuck. Fuck it. Fuck. He casts about for direction; he doesn't know where to go, what to do with this-this-

"Fuck it." He turns back down Decatur, doesn't look when he strides by the café. His anger at Orlando is irrational, this is-this is his own stupidity. He should have _known_. He should have-

He's about to cross Conti when he hears the ringing of boots behind him. Viggo inhales sharply. Don't stop.

"Viggo."

Stop.

He turns.

Orlando holds the portfolio like a Psalter, in his left hand with his right flat on the cover.

"You did this."

Viggo cannot read his tone, cannot fathom his eyes. "I did." He flexes his fists. "And I tried to explain."

" _When_ did you do this?"

"Today."

"And you say this is for me."

"Yeah."

People part around their confrontation like a river over rocks. Viggo shrugs, licks at the corner of his mouth. He doesn't know what else to say. The pictures speak for themselves; it seems his intent is irrelevant.

Orlando's mouth works, he presses his lips tightly together and blinks rapidly. He brings the portfolio back against his chest, and in that motion Viggo sees his hands shake. He steps forward.

"I can't believe you," Orlando breathes. "How did you _know_?"

In the portfolio are thirty-two colour prints of New Orleans by day. There are the bright stones of the Cabildo and the cathedral, the pink and red and white of roses in Audubon Park. There is the sun gleaming on the river bridge, on the brilliant green patina of General Jackson's monument. Little girls with braids in Catholic school uniforms, skipping rope on Annunciation Street. The crowd at the café, crammed shoulder to shoulder in the after-work rush. Bright red crawfish, dumped out on a newspaper-covered card table. Porch sitters with fruit jars of sweet tea. The statue of the Madonna on St. Ferdinand, the one at whose feet they'd kissed in the dark.

Everything he could think of, everything he could cram into a frantic handful of daylight hours, running the cabbie from one end of the city to the other. He'd spent another hour and a half borrowing the darkroom at the camera shop, he and the shop assistant running around the last twenty minutes flapping the prints to make them dry faster, the whole while grinning like an idiot.

"How did you know?" Orlando demands again, and this time his voice is shot through with cracks.

Viggo shakes his head. "I just wanted you to see. What. I wanted you to have what I. Since I can't, not, you won't or can't, I don't. I."

Orlando's knuckles are white on the edges of the portfolio.

"I guess I thought I wanted to. You show me what you see. I wanted to return the favor."

Another step, and Orlando is just there, just within reach, but Viggo isn't sure if he can touch now, if he's still allowed or if he's forfeited the privilege. He puts his hand up instead, palm out, like another street corner on another night when the rain hadn't yet dried.

"Dammit, Viggo." Orlando reaches out, meets him palm to palm for a warm second before turning his hand, pulling him in. "Goddammit," he mumbles into Viggo's throat. "Do you know what you're doing?"

"Not a fuckin' clue," Viggo sighs; he feels Orlando's chuckle rub against his skin.

"Yeah," Orlando answers. He presses a tingling kiss to Viggo's cheek. "Yeah. Same here."

:::

Dom is pacing in the open door of the warehouse; when they climb the dock to meet him, Viggo can see Livvie hovering inside, twisting her rings. Orlando's shoulders go back and up.

"What?"

Dom cracks his neck. His eyes are red-rimmed. "Elijah. He's gone missing."

Viggo feels his knees go out from under him, grabs at the wall. "No."

"When? Where? And why the bloody fucking hell did you wait until now to tell me?" Orlando's accent thickens in his anger, in his fear; when he steps forward Dom takes a step back.

"He went off. You know how he does, we didn't think-"

"Too fucking right you didn't!" Orlando is still holding the portfolio; he swings his arm and the heavy leather cracks like a gunshot against the doorframe. Viggo and Dom both jump; inside, Livvie makes a soft pained noise. Orlando turns toward her. "And you-?"

She shakes her head. "I can't. I mean. I haven't. For what it's worth." She picks at the hem of her blouse.

Orlando rubs the heel of his hand into one eye, makes a frustrated noise. "Fuck, all right. All right. Where's Billy?"

"We looked all the usual places and he didn't turn up, right? So I came back here to get you, I figured you'd be with _him_." Dom jerks his head at Viggo. "And you were, just not _here_."

"Don't-" Livvie begins; she steps into the doorway, but Orlando throws up his hand. She freezes.

"What are you saying, Dominic?" Orlando's voice is polished stone, smooth and cold.

"I'm not-I just. Orlando, you haven't been-"

"Think very carefully before you finish that sentence."

Viggo tries to breathe around the lump in his throat; it comes out more of a wheeze.

"Orlando-"

"Dominic." He says the name like a slap; Dom recoils. Orlando steps forward again. "Don't you ever- _ever_ -presume to judge me. Do you understand?"

"I do." Dom's Adam's apple bobs in the dim orange light.

Orlando turns back to Viggo, hands him the portfolio, and his fingers slide around Viggo's wrist, to his pulse, just for a beat. Two. "I'll be back." Three.

Viggo blinks. Orlando's halfway across the dock, Dom's arm in a vise-grip.

"-the last place you saw him. Now."

"Come on inside." Livvie touches his elbow; Viggo barely manages not to jump. "I got tea. At the store. It was for Dom, but."

He follows her in, pulls the door back down with a clunk while she trails over to the chairs and picks up two foam to-go cups from the floor. The fire is leaping high and hot tonight; Viggo puts the portfolio down on Orlando's chair and takes the seat to its left.

"Here."

"Thanks."

"It's got cream and sugar."

"Yeah, that's good. It's fine." He shifts, sits forward with his elbows on his knees, watches Livvie settle finally on a chair to the right side of the fire. She kicks off her sandals, tucks her bare feet up under her, and her knees poke out of the holes in her jeans.

"Elijah's-"

"He'll be okay," she says firmly. "He's tougher than looks."

"I don't doubt that." Viggo sips the tea; it's shockingly sweet but at least it's hot, takes the edge off the chill seeping through his bones. "You all are."

She shrugs. "I guess." She drinks from her own cup, shivers as if in sympathy. "You talked to Orlando."

"About-yeah. Yeah, did he? Did he apologize to you?"

Livvie looks up and away, works her teeth over her lip for a moment. "Yeah, we. We had it out."

"He told me what you said."

Her eyes fly wide. "He did?"

Viggo looks down at the cup in his hands, at the dirty floor, at the scuffed toes of his boots. "Look, I know, uh. I know I've sorta fucked up everything here, I mean, for you, you all. Have. You know, I didn't mean, I didn't plan, it just-is. It just is." He looks back up. She is nodding.

"You can't plan for things like this," she agrees softly.

"But what you said. You're wrong. I won't, not if I can help it."

He is faintly surprised at the vehemence in his voice, at the fervor with which he believes what he's saying. One mistake, that's all he's made, and he's already making up for it, he's already fixing it. The roll of film is in the bottom of his bag, as tempting as it was to develop it today, he just-didn't. He didn't.

"Of course," Livvie says. She nods again. "Of course you'll try."

"You don't sound convinced." Anger sparks in his belly.

"Viggo, I." She purses her lips. "It's not. It's not up to you."

He laughs, a short sharp bark of disbelief. "I. Wow. I don't even know what to say to that." He sits back heavily, shaking his head.

"I'm not trying to be cruel." Livvie shrugs again. "But I know what I see. I know he loves you. I know you love him. And I know that's not enough."

Viggo tastes bile in the back of his mouth. "You don't _know_ that."

Livvie doesn't answer; when she ducks her head to drink again, her hair falls forward and covers her face. He wants to get up and shake her, he wants to yell at her, he wants to throw up. He rubs at his chin, feels his stomach wrenching first one way and then the other; he finds his cigarettes and lights one with relief.

She slurps a little against the plastic of the cup lid.

He inhales and exhales loudly.

The chair creaks a little when she leans forward, tosses the foam cup into the fire. There's a hiss, a smell of petroleum. Viggo looks up.

"I know Elijah told you, told you a little about what. What happened. To me." She twists a lock of hair around her finger.

"Yeah." Any other time he'd offer his sympathy, but the near-truth of the insult is still too fresh.

"I had just met Orlando. And it was a couple weeks later. I didn't, at the time I didn't really understand but, yeah, I went and I had the thing done, and I had, we had this little rattrap apartment in Treme, there were four of us girls there, and they were all out, working, while I laid there on the kitchen floor and bled to death."

Viggo blinks. "I'm sorry," he says. He means it.

"Don't be."

"I am."

"Well." She makes a moue, rubs her elbows. "So. Well. Yeah. So I was bleeding, and I was dying, and as the blood was leaving me, I saw... everything. I saw everything. I knew I was dying. And I knew a hundred million other things, too. And it wasn't nice, it wasn't, you know, it wasn't white light or angels or anything. I didn't want to know. I was scared. I didn't want-but. But then I saw Orlando."

He will remember her face like this forever.

"And?" he rasps.

"And then I forgot everything, except one thing, and then I knew I was going to be okay."

Viggo bites the inside of his cheek. "Are you?"

"Are _you_?" She laughs. "Is anyone? Viggo, I like you. We all do. But we. I. Sometimes I can see again, sometimes I can see again like I did, then, you know, and Orlando, he. He can't. For all the things he can, he can do, that. He can't. And so I. I am very worried for you. For him. Because it's not your choice. There is no choice."

"There's always a choice."

"Not when it's already been made."

"So what's the fucking the point?" He shakes his head, lights another cigarette to try to quell the queasiness. "I don't, I mean. I have to tell you, Livvie, I'm not especially in the mood to argue existentialism with you."

She cocks her head, her mouth open a little. "You're not...in the mood? Do you understand what I am saying? Do you get it? Do you have the first fucking clue what you're in-"

The door crashes open, they both turn at once.

"Little help here?"

Orlando and Billy have Elijah hanging limply between them, an arm around each of their necks, and Viggo knows that the black streaks on his face will be red once in the light. Dom slams the door back down, swaps with Orlando who steps to the side. Elijah's better balanced between the two shorter men; they lean around and nod.

"Ready?" Billy asks.

"Easy, lads," Orlando murmurs.

"Said I'm fucking _fine_ ," Elijah snarls. He starts to take a step away from them, hisses and nearly goes down.

"Owfuck-"

"Christ-"

"What the-"

"Get him into bed. Now." Orlando strides ahead, candles on the floor springing to life as he does. Viggo scrambles to his feet and goes after, Livvie right behind him.

"I'll heat up some water," she says.

Elijah snorts and winces, takes another gingerly step. "Christ, women. What is it with you and boiling-owfuck-water? I ain't having a goddamn-fuckshit-ow-baby, here. Jesusfuck, easy, Dom."

"Thought you were fine."

"Eat my ass."

"Aye, he's fine, all right."

"I represented for the fuckin' gutter, man." Elijah spits blood onto the floor; it gleams ruby dark in the candlelight.

"You could've been killed." Orlando holds a candle in the doorway to the boys' bedroom. He looks almost frightening: the angles of his face, the set of his shoulders, all seem harder suddenly; his shadow looms huge against the wall. "Come on, just a little further."

Viggo's in the way, he knows it, but he doesn't know what else to do, either; he hangs back in the door while they settle Elijah on the bed, bolster him up with the pillows. Dom kneels at his feet, starts unlacing his sneakers, while Billy takes the head, wiping uselessly at the blood on Elijah's cheeks.

"And here you're gonna spoil me nice quilt," Billy says. His voice shakes. "A family heirloom, this is."

Elijah wheezes. "You stole this off a washline on Marais."

" _Our_ family," Dom clarifies. Elijah's sneakers make two hollow thuds on the floor.

Orlando turns to Viggo, passes two fingers over his cheek. "Hey," he whispers.

"How. How can I help?" He spreads useless hands in front of himself, shakes his head at the scene. He is not part of this.

Orlando smiles and kisses him, a fleeting sweetness that melts on Viggo's tongue. "You're helping," he murmurs. "You are."

:::

"This is our world," Billy says simply. He turns himself, sets his feet wide with his arms crossed over his chest; through the doorway, the silhouettes of the others blend and waver together on the wall. "It's not always pretty."

"I know."

Viggo watches Billy watch the doorway, offers a cigarette that's waved away. He lights it for himself instead. Sitting seems like it would be an insult, a breach of faith; they stand by the fire instead, Billy's shoulders coming up at every gasp and growl from the bedroom.

Orlando had gotten halfway through the word 'hospital' when they first found Elijah, Billy said, and Elijah had promised to cut Orlando's throat if he so much as thought it again. Found a cab, Billy said. "Had to, uh. Persuade 'im a little." He cracked his knuckles as he spoke.

College guys, three against one, Elijah hadn't noticed them following him until he was well off Bourbon, away from the crowd, out of sight.

"He gave it back, he did." Billy cannot look away from the doorway.

"I know."

Dom had sat on Elijah while Billy had held his arms, while Orlando tried to wrench Elijah's hip back into its socket, and when Elijah screamed it was Billy who threw the punch.

"Out," Orlando had snarled, blood from his nose running down over his lips, spotting his t-shirt. "Viggo, get him the fuck out of here, now."

The ensuing clash was brief; Viggo has thirty pounds and five inches on the kid, and once out in the main room Billy broke from Viggo's grip, hovering as if he was planning to try for the door again. Viggo shook his head, stepped into Billy's space and Billy folded in on himself, wrapping his arms around his body, his breath crumpling like old newspaper.

"Billy-"

"I thought I could take it, I could hear it and see it and know it had to be." Billy's jaw twitched side to side. "But not _his_ pain. Never his."

:::

It's after one when Orlando finishes with Elijah, when he's done tending to each scrape, each cut, each bruise. Livvie disappears midway through the process; Billy is allowed back in shortly after and he curls himself at Elijah's head, smoothing cool knuckles over a sweaty brow. Elijah finds Billy's hand without looking, squeezes and brings it back down to cover Dom's by his side.

Viggo retreats again to the dying fire.

"Come," Orlando whispers, his hand brushing over Viggo's shoulder. Viggo starts awake with a snort, blinks and smiles drowsily.

"Have you had any real sleep, huh?" Orlando draws him to his feet, Orlando leads him stumbling to the bedroom.

Their bedroom. Their bed.

Viggo shakes his head. "No."

"No?"

"I haven't. Really. An hour here and there-" With you. "-but I don't remember."

"You'll stay all day? Sleep and, and help Elijah." Orlando had shrugged out of his coat hours ago, now he just peels out of his t-shirt, kicks off his boots. The buckles on the boots ping and scrape against the cement.

"Of course. Hey." Viggo reaches for him, near-blind in the dimness, catches his fingers in the waist of Orlando's jeans. "Hey."

Sleepy slide of lips and tongues, their knuckles colliding as they undo each other's jeans. Orlando is soft in Viggo's hand; he huffs a frustrated noise against Viggo's lips. "Sorry."

"Don't be stupid." Viggo strokes around to Orlando's back instead. "Christ. You. What you did tonight. Where did you learn that?"

"The mending?" Orlando picks at the hem of Viggo's shirt. "Up-off-mm, that's better. Picked things up over the years. I've had to."

They sway together, tumble down to the bed with open flies and tired hands. Orlando yawns, apologizes again.

"No. You're amazing," Viggo whispers.

"I'm just getting on." Orlando shakes his head. "It's all I've ever done... just getting on."

"I don't believe that."

"It's true, even if you don't."

"No."

Through the wall come soft voices, murmurs and sighs. Viggo closes his eyes, hears and feels Orlando wriggling free of his jeans. He kicks out of his own after a moment, settles again. When he puts his hand out, his fingers brush Orlando's hip; he navigates blindly up Orlando's spine until he hears the familiar sigh, feels the muscles quiver under his fingertips.

_What are we doing? What next, what now, what happens when the book is done? What happens when the sun comes up? What happens when you close your eyes, when I touch you like this? What happens when we move together, what happens in stillness? What would happen if you knew what I-_

"Tell me a secret," Orlando mumbles, turns his face toward Viggo's. His breath is warm and coffee-stained.

Viggo's insides shudder. "Like what?" He rubs hard along Orlando's shoulder blade; Orlando moans.

"Oh. Oh. Something true. Something you've never told anyone."

"I'm in love with you." It is the easiest truth he's ever told.

"Is that a secret?"

"Not anymore, as of this moment."

Orlando makes a pleased noise, rolls his shoulders under Viggo's hand. "Good."

"Your turn."

"We didn't agree to turns."

"I'm _asking_ you."

"So it's a favour, then, not a bargain."

"I'd rather have that from you."

They breathe together; Viggo can feel Orlando's heartbeat through his back. Orlando pulls away, only to twist and press himself against Viggo, chest to chest, hip to hip. Viggo licks his lips and sighs.

"My love is no favour," Orlando says finally. "But it's yours."

:::

There is a square of violet in the window when Orlando shakes Viggo awake, his hands and his mouth rough and hungry.

"What-"

"Just-"

"C'mon-"

"But-"

They twist and grapple, Orlando finally settling under him, his lips and eyes both wet. "Come on," he says again. His throat ripples. "Give me something to take into the light."

:::

"There's a ladybug on the ceiling." Elijah's voice.

"Ladybugs are lucky." Dom's.

Viggo digs in deeper under the covers, squeezes his eyes shut against the day and tries to will himself back to sleep. It dances just out of reach, warmly teasing; he refuses to look at his watch.

"Pfuh. There was a roach in here last night. It was walking up the wall by the door."

"Roaches might be lucky, too, you know. You should've wished on it just in case."

"Ugh. No."

"See, now, that's just the attitude that creates a hostile environment for our buggish brethren. Discrimination, that is."

"I'm not wishing on a goddamn cockroach. Unless it's a wish for more fuckin' Raid."

A snort. "You, my friend, are a specist." Pause. "How are you feeling now?"

"Like I'm gonna break your nose if you ask me that again."

"Lijah."

"Anyways, I'm supposed to be resting. You're supposed to be waiting on me."

" _Lijah_."

"Don't. I'm fine. I feel fine."

"I don't believe you."

"That's okay. I'm lyin' through my fuckin' teeth."

Viggo sinks back into memory, into the heat of Orlando's voice, Orlando's lips against his ear.

Sleep.

Sleep.

:::

"That's a whole new level of indignity. Owfuck."

"At least ye didn't piss on your feet."

"Point. Ow."

Viggo rolls onto his back. It's Billy and Elijah now; he can hear the bed creaking and the odd hollow sounds of someone slapping pillows back into plumpness.

"What time is it?"

"Doesn't matter, you're not going anywhere."

It's four-thirty. Viggo puts his arm over his eyes; it's far too humid to really sleep now, even though his joints are still aching with exhaustion, even though his heart pounds a dull and listless rhythm. It's the worst sort of wakefulness, the kind where the fabric of reality seems washed-out red and ready to tear.

"Did I say anything about going anywhere, mother?"

"You're not too injured to go over my knee."

"Ooh, baby."

"Gobshite."

"I love you."

"Eh. Given. Minus ten for overstating the obvious."

Viggo rolls out of bed with a stiff thump, pulls his jeans on and scuffs to the bathroom. After he pisses, he leans over and coughs and spits into the toilet for a while, trying to get his lungs to clear.

He's lost more weight. It shows in the tight pull across his cheekbones when he bares his teeth at the mirror, it shows in the way his jeans catch on his hipbones. He rubs his fingertips across his face, over the scars and the lines and the black smudges under his eyes. His won't wipe away.

Elijah calls out when he passes by the door, "Hey, dude. Hey."

"Hey."

The cuts and bruises look harsher by day, scabbed dark brown and swollen purple. Elijah's right eye is a puffy slit, his lip black down the middle. His knuckles are scraped raw, his curled in hands twitch on top of the blanket; he breathes sharp and shallow under the strapping on his ribs.

"Christ. That fuckin' bad, huh?"

"Nah." Viggo blinks, settles against the doorframe. "Seen worse."

The corner of Billy's mouth quirks. "Told ya, kid. No sympathy from this one."

Elijah makes a face like a gargoyle, half a grimace, half a grin. "You wanna take my picture now, huh?"

"Don't have my cameras." Viggo shrugs. "You want anything? I can go up to the corner?"

"Coffee." Elijah's one good eye lights up. "Fuck, I'll blow you for a cup of coffee."

Viggo coughs up a laugh. "You can have this one on the house, kid."

:::

He gets halfway up the block and turns; the warehouse looms on the corner, grey and substantial. At the next street he whips around again, can still see the outline of the building against the sky.

When he gets back, balancing a bag of three coffees and a po-boy the size of a small dog, everything is right where he left it.

"Like what would you do if it wasn't?" he mutters, but he kicks the wall just to make sure before he goes inside.

:::

Elijah doesn't admit he's tired after they eat but when Billy suggests a lie-down he doesn't argue. "Stay," he mumbles into Billy's shoulder.

Viggo busies himself cramming coffee cups and napkins into the empty deli bag, empties the ashtray while he's at it. He feels self-conscious witnessing their intimacy, but the boys don't seem to mind; they are too comfortable, too focused.

"For a while."

"When's Dommie back?"

"Soon, _cridhe_. Soon."

Viggo doesn't know what to say, if anything's even necessary; he supposes that's answer enough. Billy lifts his head and smiles, though, as Viggo's going out. Viggo nods; Billy nods back, his lips shaping the word _thanks_.

He finds a paperback mystery crammed between the cushion and arm of one of the chairs; after he pitches the trash into the smoldering fire he settles down with it, unsure of what else to do. His promise was to stay and help, but what he can possibly offer Elijah that Billy or Dom can't is beyond his ken.

He's on his eighth cigarette and has concluded that the mother killed the children and that the disappeared pastry chef is a red herring when Dom comes clattering through the door, a brown bag under one arm. He looks sunburnt and annoyed.

"Oi-"

Viggo shakes his head. "Sleeping," he says in a low voice, marking his page with one finger. "Billy's with him."

"I see, right." Dom offers a half-smile, changes his parcel to the other arm. "I'll, uh-" He shifts from foot to foot, his Docs scraping on the cement. "Right." He smiles again, marginally more sincere, and heads for the bedroom.

Billy frog-marches him back out again twenty seconds later.

"-solutely not. Siddown."

Dom glowers, yanks his arm out of Billy's grasp. "All I was-"

"Ah! No."

"But-"

"Are you deaf or just stupid?" Billy cuffs Dom behind the ear.

"Hey!"

"And keep your voice down, it's no good if you go and wake him anyway bein' a fuckin' idiot."

Dom's jaw works, his lips pursed. "Fine." He takes two blind steps back, drops in a graceless heap over the arm of a chair. "Fine, I'll just sit here and have me a nice conversation with Veeeeeeego."

Viggo winces. Billy looks disgusted.

"If you have to kill him," Billy says, "we'll all understand."

"Pfah," Dom sticks his tongue out at Billy's retreating back, folds his hands over his stomach. "So. Veeeeeeego. What the hell is that? Swedish or something?"

"Danish."

"Danish."

"Yeah." Viggo taps the paperback against his knee. "You're from Manchester, aren't you?"

Dom's grin is slow like honey. "Obvious, innit?"

"Probably not to everyone. I've spent a lot of time there, my, uh. My best friend's from Sheffield."

"Fuckin' shithole, that is."

"He'd say the same about Manchester."

Dom snorts, plays with the hem of his shirt for a moment before looking back up. "About the other night, listen. It's just a thing, right? Orlando and you are. He is. Ah. Fuck it. Look."

"What?" Viggo narrows his eyes, shakes his head. "Make your point, if you have one."

"My point." Dom sits up, swings around so his feet are on the floor. He puts his elbows on his knees, leans forward. "My point is, uh, it isn't I don't like you, right, you're a decent bloke, you're all kind and generous and shit, and you're apparently a fuckin' Viking in the sack-"

"Okay, I don't-"

"-but Orlando is fuckin' losing it. He's messing shit up all over the place 'cos he's always draped over your lap, and no offence, mate, but I care about my _family_ a lot more than I care about you. In very short. Sorry."

Viggo flexes one hand and counts to ten. Twice. And again in three other languages, while Dom eyeballs him, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

He exhales slowly. "I don't think I... have anything to say to that."

"You can't be together." Dom shakes his head, his expression somewhere between sad and doubtful. "It just won't work, there's. There's too much you don't know, that you wouldn't understand, and if he-"

"Dommie."

They both turn at the sound of Billy's voice, and Billy is standing with his arms crossed, his eyes dark.

"Yeah, darlin?" Dom smiles.

"Elijah's awake, he wants to come sit out here a while. Come help me?"

"'Course."

Viggo waits until Dom is gone to unclench his fist.

:::

"I got you a little something..." Dom ducks his head, scuffs his boot. Billy looks amused.

Elijah shifts stiffly, his legs stretched straight out in front of him, and it's obvious he's trying to keep his smile from becoming a flinch. He stops and breathes; his next smile is genuine. "Is it a pony?"

"Did you want a pony?"

"I think I would feel better if I had a pony."

"You should've known that, tcha." Billy settles on the arm of the chair, turns his body just a bit. Elijah sags into his side with a sigh.

"I can go down to the square and get you one, right now."

"Owfuck. Don't make me laugh."

"Sorry, I-" Dom scrunches up his face, his shoulders coming up. "Can I-"

"'Course."

Dom balances gingerly on the other side of the chair, braces himself with his foot on the floor and his arm along the back. He puts the paper bag in Elijah's lap and drops a kiss on top of Elijah's head; Billy's arm comes up to lay along Dom's.

"Aw, man. That's-"

"Yeah, I thought-"

Viggo doesn't see the reveal, he feels dizzy suddenly, mumbles an excuse as he jerks to his feet. They're not paying attention anyway; he drags himself outside, sucks in lungfuls of violet dusk. The cement wall is cool against his back as he slides down it, folding down into a small heap on the dock. He turns his head and closes his eyes, tries to get the spinning to stop.

He hasn't had vertigo this bad since right after he got shot, it didn't seem to happen for any particular reason, it just would hit him, reduce him to a puking shaking mess. The world whirls in one direction, his head in the opposite direction, and Viggo finds himself digging his fingers into the cement, choking for breath.

There was a nurse in the Chechen hospital who'd hold him though the episodes, to make sure he didn't pop his stitches or tear out his I.V; she would sing and soothe and wipe his forehead with deliciously cold rags. When it finally subsided, when he lay there shuddering, trying to remember what it was like to feel tethered to the earth, she would cluck her tongue and tuck him back into his blankets, shaking her head with an expression of warm pity.

She was half Rom, she said, and spoke decent English, enough that they could understand each other; one time he grabbed her wrist as she tried to go, begged her to tell him what he could do, how to make it stop.

"Nothing," she said, gently prising his fingers off her hand. "Nothing, sir, only time. You. I think maybe you were over there too long; it take a long time to get back."

"Where? Over where?"

Her smile reminded him of the Madonna. "The other side, sir. You were too long out of the light."

Viggo opens his eyes on a deep purple sky, on the vision of Orlando's shoulders, his head down, his hands in his pockets. He takes long strides up the street, his coat-tails flapping behind him. The dizziness threatens again.

He swings down off the dock; Orlando looks up with a bright grin. They collide in the shadows, and everything spins.

:::

"I'm glad you came," Viggo says to the warm place behind Orlando's ear, and the words feel salty, too raw and honest. They lean on the dock, Orlando weighty and solid against Viggo's chest, his hands rough and familiar.

"Where else would I go?" Orlando rests his forehead against Viggo's shoulder.

"I don't know."

"I came straight to you, as soon as I could."

Viggo's stomach is slowly settling, his breathing evens out in time to Orlando's pulse under his lips. He feels bolstered like this, braced between cement and muscle, feels like no matter what, he wouldn't fall.

"How was your day, hm?" Orlando leans back a bit, just enough to cup Viggo's cheek with one hand. "How is everything?"

"Elijah's better." He chooses his words with care. "Mostly just achy, like you said, but I think his ribs are bothering him."

The swipe of Orlando's thumb across Viggo's lower lip makes his cock twitch.

"And?"

"And, oh. And Dom told me off. I. Whatever."

Orlando shifts his hips against Viggo's. "Oh? What did he say?"

"Pretty much what I already heard from Livvie. I don't know you, I don't understand, it'll never work..." Viggo trails off with a shrug. He fits his palm over the ridge of Orlando's hipbone.

"Is that what they think?" Orlando's tone is mild, but the streetlight flickers.

"So it seems. I don't. I."

"You don't what?" Orlando kisses him, a brief wet exchange of breath. "Talk to me, we're out here, nobody to see, nobody to hear, love. Talk to me."

Viggo rubs his cheek against Orlando's. "I want you so fucking much." He sighs. "And I don't know to make this work, maybe it can't, maybe they're right."

Other relationships required compromises no more strenuous than clearing out a shelf in the medicine chest. They did not require pacts sealed with rum and fire.

"No. No, that's not it." Orlando shakes his head, his tone brooking no argument. "Maybe we. Maybe we got off wrong, yeah?" He touches Viggo's face again, smoothes two fingers over each eye. "Maybe I should've known that I couldn't... couldn't stop m'self."

"What do you mean?"

"I." Orlando's next kiss is more like a headbutt, startling and nearly painful. "C'mon, walk with me. Walk with me."

They trail up to Royal, wander uptown for several blocks before Orlando speaks again, and even then it's not to Viggo, but to greet a woman sitting with her belongings in a garbage bag, leaning on the steel security grille of a closed shop. He keeps his hands in his pockets; his eyes are everywhere, but Viggo can never tell what he's looking at. Viggo has to take two steps for every one of Orlando's - his legs aren't that much longer, but he seems to cover more ground with each weightless stride.

The guys on the corner of Clouet stomp their feet and howl when they see Orlando; he leaves Viggo on the sidewalk and strolls straight up onto the porch, is met by a young man with a white do'rag over his dreadlocks, a gold cross shining bright against his bare chest.

" _Vive le roi_ , baby."

"And don't you forget it, dog."

Fists collide, knuckle to knuckle; Viggo can't follow the pattern of the complex handshake that follows, but it ends in an embrace, in a snap of the fingers. Orlando pokes his tongue out for moment, leans back on the rail with his arms crossed.

"What do you know, Baptiste?"

"That your boy? He stinks of you, _Roi_ , he come on down this way the other night. Felt like a like a motherfuckin' tornado through here, man, you know what I'm sayin?"

Orlando flicks a glance down at Viggo, his eyes bright. "He's good."

"I don't care he's good, you just gotta watch what you're at, you know what I'm sayin? It's like, you know, man, there's bitches and then there's business."

"You calling my boy a bitch?" Amused, but cold. Orlando's lips harden into a thin line.

Baptiste holds up his hands. "I'm saying Dom was by this morning, said shit went down with _petit_. And I know you, man. If something happened to _petit_ , it means you was lookin' somewheres else."

"Which way were _you_ looking?"

"You want names?"

"Faces is enough."

"I get you that, I get you that."

Orlando scratches his chin. "You can fix it?"

"You know I can, _Roi_." Baptiste cracks his knuckles. "You can fix _this_?" He jerks his head at Viggo.

There isn't even a blur of motion, there's just the crack of fist meeting mouth, the blood slapping bright against the whitewashed floorboards. Baptiste staggers back, two of his boys catching his arms. Orlando doesn't even look like he's moved.

"You do your part, I'll do mine. _Comprends-tu?_ "

" _Mais_ -" Baptiste spits red. "- _oui. Roi_."

Orlando stares at him for a moment, his expression unreadable; the other men on the porch look down, look away, but Baptiste holds his eyes, unwavering, until Orlando turns on his heel and leaves.

:::

They are on the other side of Esplanade by the time Orlando takes Viggo's elbow, steers him through a rapid series of side-streets and alleyways, finally shoving him through a battered blue carriage-gate in a decrepit townhouse. The hinges screech, the wood scrapes on the cobbles; Orlando heaves the gate back into place, gives Viggo another push and they stumble into an inner courtyard, overgrown with vines and flowers.

There are no lights in the building. Viggo turns in a slow circle, gazing up at the broken windows, the peeling paint, squinting to make out more than just vague impressions in the dimness.

"Does anyone live here?"

"No." Orlando's face is lit by a sudden blaze of light; Viggo smells sulfur and then tobacco.

He can just make out Orlando's expression, brow knit with fury, his lips twisted around the butt of the cigarette. Viggo fishes in his shirt pocket, finds only an empty pack. His hands twitch at his sides.

"I love you."

Orlando's words ring out, bouncing off the high walls; he shakes his head as he paces, leaves and twigs crunching beneath his boots. Viggo nods.

"I know."

Whether it makes sense or not. Right or wrong. Now or never.

"And I would like these fucking _children_ to stop _questioning_ that." Orlando spits, kicks a rock. It flies through the air, lands in the shrubbery with a crash. "And I would like to be left to my fucking business, eh, after all this time, I would think that my judgment would be a little less suspect? I would think that after all I've done for these people, they could let me... let me _have_ something, some little bit of-"

"I'm sorry."

"You should be, it's your fault."

Viggo snorts. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. You saw me."

Orlando stops short, turns and crosses the courtyard with impossibly long strides, stops again just in front of Viggo. Smoke rises from the cigarette in his hand. Viggo takes it from yielding fingers, takes a long drag, never looking away from Orlando's eyes.

"I saw you."

"That morning, by the river. The sun was coming up."

"I know." _I tried to take your picture, and you slipped away. You smiled and you were gone._

"You saw me." Orlando takes the cigarette back, pinches the coal out between his fingers. His voice sounds raw, nearly hysterical; his shoulders hitch. "Viggo."

"What?" He risks a hand on Orlando's chest, pressed flat over Orlando's pounding heart.

"If you can just be patient. Just... you'll finish your work, won't you? You'll do what you said?"

"Of course."

"And then you'll wait."

For what? Does it matter? "Yes."

Teeth tear at lips, hands grip at hips; Orlando pushes Viggo backward, the briars and vines tearing at their arms, their sleeves, their cheeks. Viggo trips over a broken chunk of stone and Orlando makes a sound like a sob; they crash through the brambles, down to the ground. Orlando's weight drives the air from his lungs.

"You'll wait," Orlando repeats, his voice ripping like rotted silk.

"Yes." His thumbs press into Orlando's cheeks, Orlando's fingers bite into Viggo's biceps. They are both bleeding, they are both crying, everything's spinning again and Viggo wouldn't make it stop for anything, not this time.

"I just. I have to figure it out."

"I'll wait." It doesn't matter. Nothing but this matters.

:::

The warehouse is dark and silent when they stumble back inside; Orlando leads the way, his fingers sweaty as he pulls Viggo through the black.

"Shh."

They push through the curtain, clutch and sway for a moment, fighting for control of Orlando's coat. Eventually it flops heavily to the floor, joined by Viggo's torn shirts, joined by their boots.

The candles on the table flare to life. Viggo licks at a scratch on Orlando's throat, taste like copper and earth; Orlando moans, grabs at Viggo's hair.

"Sh."

"Fuck-"

He turns Orlando to face the wall and Orlando sags against it, rests his forehead on his folded arms. Viggo bends, licks the long line of Orlando's left wing, and Orlando gasps, his whole body shaking.

"God-"

"Yeah-"

Viggo licks again, this time with his hand in the open fly of Orlando's jeans. Orlando groans, his breath coming short and ragged.

"Don't," Orlando sobs.

"Don't?" Viggo squeezes, tastes a small feather near Orlando's armpit.

"Don't, I don't want to-"

"Hmm?"

"Fuck you, fuck. Viggo. I can't. Not like this. I."

"I bet you can."

"You know I _can_ ," Orlando snarls. He grabs at Viggo's wrist, pulls and twists around, one hand on Viggo's wrist, the other coming up to catch in Viggo's hair. "And I know I'm not gonna."

Viggo grins, licks his lips. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Orlando gives Viggo's arm an indelicate wrench. "Down."

He goes, not in need of any persuasion or incentive beyond the recollection of the taste of Orlando's cock, of the humid weight of it on his tongue. His knees hit the cement with an audible crack but he doesn't feel anything beyond this, beyond _this_.

Orlando moans his name. Viggo looks up, the sweat in his eyes burning. The candlelight glows warm on Orlando's skin. Viggo closes his eyes, and pretends it's the sunrise.

:::

Hands on his hips, teeth on his shoulder, a long slow push inside. It might be a dream, it might be a memory, and it might be a little of both, a little blood mixed with deep blue darkness.

Viggo comes hard and tastes salt, shakes to the thunder of his heartbeat echoing in his ears.

He wakes alone.

:::

_when Wm. gets back to-day go get yr camra & pls come ~~home~~ back._   
_lets do smthing to-night._   
_yrs, O._

:::

Elijah is curled under a quilt by the fire, nose buried in a ragged copy of _The Stand_ , absently pulling on Samedi's ears with the other hand. Viggo drops into the chair closest, already sweating in the early afternoon heat.

"Hey."

"Hey." Elijah glances up; the dog makes a soft whuff.

"You cold?" It's hard to even recall what cold feels like, not when the humidity sits at nearly a hundred percent even before noon, not when the sun soaks into your skin even when you're inside.

"A little." Elijah shrugs. He marks his place with his finger, angles his shoulders again. "I still feel kinda like I got the shit kicked out of me, weirdly enough"

"Heh. Yeah."

The bruises are going to green, the scabs to black. The swelling around Elijah's eye has gone down, leaving the skin dark and thin.

"Billy brought me some oranges. You can have one if you want." Elijah picks at the cover of the book, flicks away a flake of paper.

"I'm going out in a bit. I'll get something to eat then."

"Dom likes you, you know, he didn't. I mean. I know he was kind of an asshole to you, but he gets like that, he gets. I don't know. But he didn't mean it."

Viggo feels his eyebrows creeping ever higher, bites at the inside of his cheek in an effort to remain circumspect. "I think he meant it at the time, under the circumstances."

"I didn't like you at first." Elijah's fingers curl in Samedi's ruff; he meets Viggo's eyes with a clear and steady gaze.

"I know."

"That's kind of _why_ I started to like you." Elijah rummages under his quilt, produces a bent cigarette and a book of matches. He folds a match over, one-handed, sparks it on the back of the book with his thumb. It's a trick that Viggo hasn't seen outside of a very few bars, and not from anyone under the age of forty.

"What do you mean?"

"Like. You got it, and you didn't try to like, impress me. You didn't try to get me on your side." Elijah picks tobacco off his lip. "And you didn't freak out when I. When I. You know. Talked to you."

Viggo rubs at his mouth, his palm scraping the two-days' beard on his chin. "I like to think I'm pretty hard to freak out. I mean, I. I'm not going to tell you that you don't break my fuckin' heart, kid, but-"

"Why?" Elijah interrupts. He flicks ash on the floor, shaking his head. "I'm not, not sad. I'm fucking _alive_. This. This-" He waves at his eye. "-is nothing."

"I'm sorry, I-"

"See, okay, dude, the. It's like, of all the things I resent in the world - which include but are not limited to: bad coffee, paper cuts, tourists, monkeys and that fucking Doors song 'Hello, I Love You' - the thing I resent _most_ is people _assuming_ things about me, and particularly people assuming that I did not _choose_ this." Elijah takes a long drag on his cigarette, his eyes narrowing. "So don't, actually. Don't tell me I break your heart. I can still change my mind about you."

Viggo's lips twitch; he bites down on his tongue. A smile at this juncture, he's sure, will get him that cigarette coal right in the fuckin' eye.

"But yeah, okay," Elijah concludes after a moment, "Yeah, I think you're kind of all right. Whatever else, you-" He stops, looks down at the dog. She's begun to snore; Elijah smiles.

"I what?" Viggo slouches, his hands splayed on his thighs. Fuck, it's hot. He feels a little light-headed; breathes deep and the dizziness ebbs.

"You make him happy," Elijah says simply. "Everything else, that's. It's sort of my business, yeah, but, like, like, Dom, okay, Dom was angry and he was scared and he was angry _because_ he was scared, you know? So he blames you. It's easier to blame you than to accept that Orlando made a decision that didn't include the rest of us."

Viggo closes his eyes. The air is perfectly still; he imagines he can feel dust settling on his skin. When he opens them, Elijah is regarding him with a narrow gaze, unblinking and sharp.

"And so in a way," he says slowly, "it _is_ my fault."

"No more your fault than anybody else's, I don't think. Orlando, he's. He's."

"He's what?"

"He's able to fall in love." Elijah holds up his cigarette butt, considers the last millimeter of tobacco. "Don't think for a second he doesn't mean it. He's hard, and he's. He's complicated. But if he says anything, he means it. And I've never in all these years heard him say the things he says to you."

The lump in Viggo's throat is sudden and ridiculous; he coughs, hopes the splay of fingers over his mouth distracts from the burn in his cheeks. Elijah's blunt assessment is nothing like Dom's bitter warning or Livvie's dark prediction; its lack of doomsaying is half its comfort, but the other half, the better half, is the certainty that Elijah, of all people, knows Orlando well enough to say.

"And you," Elijah adds, his voice gone soft. He smiles, a boyish, crooked grin. "You don't have to say anything at all."

Viggo returns the smile, considers pressing further, but getting this much out of Elijah already defies expectation. He scratches at the nappy green weave of the chair-arm, listens to the threads pop under his thumbnail. The dog snores. The fire crackles.

He looks up. "You resent monkeys?"

Elijah's lip curls. "Yeah, well, for starters, they fuckin' _smile_ all the time."

:::

When Billy comes, Viggo goes; it's getting on in the afternoon and while they offer him fruit and coffee and reassurances, the note in his pocket itches. Besides, at this point he needs more than a whore's bath out of the sink, and the hotel shower is starting to sound like paradise.

The vertigo hits again about six blocks down Chartres; he staggers another two before spots a gypsy cab and waves it down. He collapses gratefully in the back seat, rides the whole way back to Canal Place with his eyes squeezed shut, his fingers dug in to the cracked vinyl seat.

"You want to go to the hospital, man? You sick?"

Shaking his head requires superhuman effort. "Just. Just my hotel. Please."

He manages to hold himself upright long enough to collect a sheaf of messages from the desk; the one of the young men there asks Viggo if he's all right, but the concern is edged with a note of revulsion. He shrugs, and doesn't answer.

The notes flutter like confetti to the floor as soon as he slams his door behind him; he crumbles after them, crawls the last fifteen feet into the bathroom. Not even Orlando's goddamn black rum made his head spin like this, it's worse than the other night, it's worse than ever.

"Fuck."

The toilet seat is blissfully cold against his cheek. He pukes up bile and acid until it feels like his eyeballs are going to pop, undresses himself there on the floor with a series of half-gestures, each one taking longer than the last. An hour passes before he finds the strength to heave himself up over the side of the tub, and the first blast of water from the shower is frigid, the next is scalding. It's hard to modulate properly when you can't lift your head, when all you have is the skin on your back to tell you what's what.

Eventually something like equilibrium returns, but he still feels like his limbs are knotted dishrags, like his knees won't hold him for a yard, much less the long walk back to Bywater. He thinks of the line through the word _home_ , of a bed that is always made in a dusty little room. You can do this. You can keep your word.

He is sitting in his jeans on the end of the bed, one sock on, one in his hand, when the door flies open.

"You are absolute crap at following directions, love-"

Orlando.

"I'm trying." Viggo waves his sock limply

He blinks; Orlando is on his knees in front of him. "What happened?"

"I got. I got dizzy."

Orlando's hands are warm and strong on Viggo's wrists, chafing them, pressing his pulse. "You're cold."

"I'm hot." Sweating, in fact. A scalding drop runs down his nose.

"Fucking _hell_." Orlando goes white under his tan, his knuckles swiping over Viggo's forehead. "When did you eat last?"

He doesn't remember. "I think. I think with Elijah and Billy?"

"Today?"

Viggo shakes his head. "Yesterday. Afternoon."

"That's no good." Orlando's smile is shaky. "Let's get you some, some soup, hm? Some toast?"

"No, no." This isn't how it's supposed to happen. "No, you said. Your note, you said."

"Oh, that. That can wait, love." Orlando flips his hand over his shoulder. "You're going no further than this bed, and you're not going to argue, so." He pats the mattress. "Up and in. Out of those jeans."

"I'm fine." Viggo scrubs the heel of his hand over his eyes. "I'm fine, I-"

When he stands, he sits right back down again. To his credit, Orlando only lifts an eyebrow and points to the pillows.

Orlando chatters like the worst sort of busybody nurse, now let's get your peejays on, now let's get you tucked in, ooh, I wonder what's on channel four. Viggo bats the TV remote away, refuses the pyjama bottoms that Orlando finds in the depths of Viggo's luggage. He does allow himself to be bundled into boxers and a t-shirt, propped up on the pillows and buried in blankets. Orlando sweet-talks room-service into making off-menu chicken soup and toasted-cheese sandwiches, he flits around the room tidying up while they wait for the food, and Viggo wishes he had the energy to laugh at this new facet; as it is he just leans back and marvels.

"Would you mind-" he asks after a moment, holds his hand out for the messages that Orlando has tapped into a neat stack.

"Of course." Orlando sits on the edge of the bed, licks over his lower lip. "Someone's awfully worried about you."

"He worries too much."

"A mate?"

"Best mate," Viggo agrees. The top slip reads _Just leave me one damned message that you're still breathing, or I'm coming down there._ He flips through the other slips, all variations on the same theme, and dumps them in the trash.

"Yeah?" Orlando strokes over Viggo's knee through the blankets, gives it a squeeze.

"Yeah."

"Hmmph."

"Are you jealous?" Viggo grins.

"Yes." Orlando's Adam's apple bobs.

"He's also my editor. I work for him."

The fingers on Viggo's knee spider-walk up his thigh. "Ours was business."

"Don't do this." Dizziness threatens again. "Ours was never business, and you know it."

Orlando looks down, his hand continuing up onto Viggo's stomach, up onto Viggo's chest. He traces a nonsense shape over Viggo's heart; Viggo grabs his wrist and Orlando's hand flattens, presses hard. It feels to Viggo as though his heart is pounding Orlando's fist; he shakes his head.

"Don't do this," he repeats.

"Are you mine?" Orlando whispers. His fingers flex against Viggo's chest, but he doesn't pull his hand away.

"Yes, I am." He lets go, drops back against the pillows.

Orlando nods, teeth worrying at his lip again. "I want. I wanted to hear you say it. To know it. It. It means more when you say it."

"You don't have anything to worry about," Viggo promises.

"But I do." Orlando brings his hand back up, touches Viggo lightly between the eyes. "I do."

:::

Orlando insists on feeding him; when Viggo protests Orlando strips naked and claims that it'll be sexy. Viggo laughs so hard he nearly spills the tray, as much at Orlando's air of offended dignity as at the suggestion. About half the soup does manage to make it into Viggo's mouth, while Orlando claims the sandwich for himself, gnawing down to the crusts and then pitching them into the trash.

"The crust is the best part," Viggo says. "It's got all the vitamins."

"That's crap." Orlando kneels over him, cups his face for a kiss. "How can something burnt have vitamins? Are you sleepy?"

"A little." A lot. He breathes slow and deep, strokes over Orlando's back. "We can still go-"

"No, no. It'll keep, I told you." Orlando kisses him again, tastes like bread and butter. "Now you're going to sleep."

"Will you stay?" It's not even that late. "Stay and-" Something.

"Sh. Yes, I'll stay."

Orlando fits himself behind Viggo, his breath warm on the back of his neck, his hands soothing on Viggo's chest.

"Go to sleep," Orlando sighs. "And I'll sleep with you. I promise."

Viggo nods.

The lights in the room blink out one by one.

He expects to wake alone, for a moment he's sure that there's nothing more substantial behind him than a wad of bedclothes, sure that this morning is like every other. Then Orlando shifts with a soft sound, his lips parting on the back of Viggo's neck, his arm tightening around Viggo's waist.

Viggo squints at the clock. Close enough.

"Good morning," he breathes, his voice is just as shaky as he feels.

"Yeah." Orlando's eyelashes flutter against Viggo's skin, his breath is warm and wet. "Very nearly."

"If I ask you to stay-"

"I would if I could."

Orlando curls his fingers under the hem of Viggo's boxers, his knuckles brushing back and forth. Viggo sucks in his breath.

"Why can't you?"

"Take this off." Orlando tugs at the neck of Viggo's t-shirt with his teeth, at the hem with his hand. "I can't because-I can't because I can't. I can't. Tell you yet, I-"

Viggo wrestles the shirt over his head and settles back down, hisses when their skins connect, when Orlando's teeth close over the tendon in his neck.

"Yet? Does that mean-"

"Yet, it means, yet, maybe. Do you have anything, I want to fuck you."

"God-fuck-shit-I. I don't, no, remember? We took it-"

"Fuck." Orlando's fist contracts around Viggo's cock; they both gasp. "Fuck, you're-"

"Do it anyway."

"Don't be stupid." Orlando bites down again; Viggo moans, jerks in Orlando's hand. "Not enough time, anyway, I-"

"What-oh-"

Orlando hitches his hips. "Relax, love. Close your eyes."

He leans back into Orlando's chest, rocks forward into Orlando's hand; he lets his awareness contract to just this, the sureness of Orlando's touch, the warmth of Orlando's mouth, the slick slide of their sweaty skins. With his eyes closed it's still night, and dawn isn't creeping like a pale pink murderer outside the windows.

Only the soft whine in Viggo's ear, the hot spill against Viggo's back, lets him know; Orlando tightens his stroke, his breath comes short.

"Come for me."

"Jesus-"

"Come for me." Orlando licks a broad stripe up the side of Viggo's neck, punctuates his command with another bite. "Come. Now."

Viggo chokes out Orlando's name as he does, grabs at Orlando's arm, trying in vain to pull him closer, closer, closer still. Orlando's weight comes forward heavily, Viggo tips with it; they cling there, in the middle of the sheets, bodies ticking like cooling engines. Orlando makes a quiet pained noise.

The sun is rising.

"Go," Viggo whispers. He can feel Orlando's heart thudding against his spine, the panicked hitch of his breath.

"I-"

"Don't. Not for me."

Orlando moves stiffly, jerking on his clothes, his eyes ever on the windows, on the doors. He seems on the verge of speaking, his lips parting several times but no sound coming out; Viggo sits with his head in his hands, unable to look away.

_What have I done? What have **you** done? And can we afford the price?_

Viggo licks his lips, his mouth gone dry. Orlando shakes his head, his eyes bright, the heel of one hand pressed to his chest, the other on the door handles.

"Tonight," he rasps. "There. There, home."

Viggo nods; he reaches out but the door has already closed.

:::

The night table is awash in detritus from emptied pockets: small change, matchbooks, business cards, lint, a button with its threads still in the holes, torn from god knows what. The ashtray has been emptied and wiped clean, or maybe replaced, he doesn't know which. It hardly matters.

He digs the canister of film out of the bottom of his bag and puts it on the table; his hand shakes and it clicks against the glass of the ashtray when it tips over and rolls. Viggo licks his lips, makes a face. He counts ten and snatches up the canister, drops it in the trash; he makes it halfway to the door before he turns back for it, scooping the thing out and tossing it on the table again.

What if I-

What if-

What-

He turns back.

He turns back again.

Eventually he catches sight of himself in the mirror through the open bathroom door, too-thin, unshaven, going in circles like some kind of half-assed dervish.

The sun is already a bloody yolk breaking on the horizon. Viggo rolls his watch over; it hangs loose on his narrow wrist, and the weight of the casing keeps making it turn round and bang on the heel of his hand. It's late.

"Fuck," he mouths. His reflection agrees.

:::

The warehouse is filled with candles again, dancing and flickering in a breeze that Viggo can't seem to feel. Orlando has one booted foot drawn up, his chin propped on the opposite fist, the rest of his limbs in a regal sprawl. He doesn't look up when Viggo draws near, but his eyelids flutter, his lashes casting long shadows on his cheeks.

"I'm late," Viggo sighs, stopping short of the chair, suddenly insecure. "I'm sorry."

"Did you rest?" Orlando's breaths are slow and loud.

"I laid in bed and thought of you." Viggo chances a step closer.

"Did you eat?"

"I did. Did you?"

Orlando looks up with bright eyes. "I wasn't hungry. I was worried for you."

Viggo shakes his head, holds out his open palm. "No, I was worried for _you_."

The corner of Orlando's mouth twitches; he reaches out, covers Viggo's hand with his own. "What-"

"What what?"

Orlando tugs; Viggo stumbles closer, to stand between Orlando's knees. Their thumbs trade secrets on each other's palms.

"What are we doing?" Orlando's voice is sharp-edged and brittle.

"I don't care." Viggo shrugs, squeezes Orlando's fingers. "I don't care, as long as we keep doing it."

:::

They wander vaguely northward, through neighbourhoods that Viggo knows by name only. Orlando keeps his hand on Viggo's back, every now and then stroking upward to squeeze the back of Viggo's neck, a gently possessive gesture that makes Viggo's gut flop. Now and then someone will nod a greeting, flip two fingers to their brow in salute; once an old woman in a rocking chair blows Orlando a kiss. Now and then Orlando will point out an image, a person, a picture; Viggo shoots some, leaves others.

They walk in silence.

Viggo sees the lights of the police cars from the other end of the block, the red and blue bright against the paler houses; ahead of them lies the canal, the Bayou St John. Orlando squeezes Viggo's arm, pulls him along through the rubberneckers, closer to the line of yellow tape.

"You have a press card."

"Yeah, no, I-" He digs in his camera bag, finds a wire service ID that expired three years ago. "Yeah."

Orlando jerks his chin at the crime scene. "Can you?"

He remembers how to do this, how to give that almost-smile when you look 'em in the eye and lie, how to walk like you've got every right to be there. Talk like one of them, slide the accent on like a costume. He flashes his pass with his finger over the date, ducking under the scene tape, the muddy canal bank squelching under his boots.

"You got a fuckin' mess here, y'all- _click_ -what? Associated Press, yeah- _click_ -I come on down from Baton Rouge- _click_ -this afternoon, not for this, naw, man, for that other clusterfuck-"

He takes the chance that there has been at least one other major crime in the city in the past twenty-four hours; the uniform turns a little green and nods, confides he isn't used to the body count on this job yet, he doesn't like dead people, gives him the fuckin' creeps.

Viggo punches the cop in the shoulder, tells him it doesn't get easier, tells him that the job is worth it, hey, what the hell happened to this poor sonofabitch, anyhow?

The body in the half-zipped bag was once a blond boy of about twenty-two; Viggo guesses he'd been in the water about a day, the yawning gap in what was once his windpipe has gone white around the edges. The second bag is a black heap down the bank.

"Can't give you names 'til we've called the families, you know that." The young cop rubs his knuckles over his mouth.

Viggo focuses on the men in the muck at the water's edge, trying to coax the third floater in to land. His flash pops and hisses, leaves a retina burn flickering at the corners of his vision. "S'all right, man, you know we'll be callin' for the official word."

"Wasn't robbed, though. Full wallets on both of 'em." The cop wants to help. The rookies always want to help, want to talk, anything to keep from losing their lunch all over the scene. "U.N.O ID on both of 'em, prob'ly on the third fella, too."

College guys. Three college guys. Three-

He turns, catches the paler curve of Orlando's skull amongst the darker faces, the red of his coat amongst the more somber clothes. Orlando nods, his face grave. Three college guys.

_You can fix it?_

"Who the hell are you?" Captain's bars on this one, steelier eyes, steadier hands.

"Press." Viggo goes for his pass.

"Yeah, well, I don't fuckin' care. Back behind the goddamn line." The Captain's hand comes up to enforce his order and Viggo raises his own, surrendering.

:::

"Is this what-? What-the other night?"

Orlando blinks. "Are you angry?"

"No." Viggo pulls the strap of his bag over his head, tugs the buckles tight with his left hand. "No, come here."

"Why?"

" _Please_ come here?"

They linger down the block, just out of the reach of the streetlight, just out of sight. Nobody cares anyway; they are all still too busy making anonymous tragedy their own.

Orlando steps up, his jaw tense, his hands twitching at his sides. "What?"

Viggo cups his cheek, leans in to brush his mouth across Orlando's. He presses, slides his tongue across the seam of Orlando's lips; he puts his other hand in the small of Orlando's back, trying to force their bodies together. It takes a moment before Orlando gives in, before he becomes heavy and warm and boneless in Viggo's arms, before he opens his mouth for Viggo's kiss.

He should be shocked. He should be furious. He should condemn this, and he should walk away.

"I understand," he whispers against Orlando's cheek, smearing his lips across the skin. "God fucking help me, I do."

:::

They follow a path of warm shadows down Esplanade, quiet under the canopy of trees. Between Dauphine and Bourbon they stop and kiss against an oak, the moss damp against Viggo's back, Orlando's hands strong on Viggo's hips. The city breathes around them, humid with jasmine and spice.

"Take me home," Viggo whispers.

"You _are_ home." Orlando's smile is bright.

Anyone else saying these things would sound disingenuous and absurd. Anyone else saying these things would not have their fingers tucked up under Viggo's shirt, tracing his scars while the streetlights hum and sputter.

He feels both sleepy and alert, like his heart is moving too slow and his head too fast. Orlando's teeth graze his lower lip; their noses crash together and laughter oozes from the kiss like jam from a sandwich.

Orlando tugs him along the avenue, keeps looking back over his shoulder, his lips curving softly in the shadows. At some point Viggo stops following, and falls into step at Orlando's left; Orlando hums to the rhythm of their boots, ringing together on the cement.

_O' the grand ol' Duke of York... 'ad ten thousand men... marched 'em up to the top o' the hill, marched 'em down again._

His brass buttons wink under the lights.

They find the boys squished together on the stairs, Elijah in the middle; they're passing a plastic cup and a cigarette and a heel of a baguette, all three objects constantly in motion. Billy rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck; he doesn't look back but he says,

"Himself is arrived, lads."

Dom grunts. "Himself can bugger off."

"Shall I?" Orlando answers, treads more heavily on the next stair.

"Fuck." Dom twists and coughs. "I didn't-" He makes to stand, Orlando waves his hand and Dom thuds back down. "Fuck. Sorry."

"If you meant it, I would." Orlando drops down on the opposite side of the stairs, his back against a post. He grins. "But you don't, so I ain't."

Viggo hangs back, but Orlando shakes his head, holds his hand out. It makes him feel stupid and old and awkward, wondering if the rest of them'll ever accept him, if he'll ever be more than just... this. Whatever this is.

 _Temporary_.

"Hey." Orlando reaches, squeezes Viggo behind the knee, rubs up Viggo's thigh. "Sit, love, I want something to lean on."

Permanent. Viggo swallows hard, and sits.

Elijah hunches with his eyes on the water, Billy's hand on his back moving in small circles. Dom winds up with both the beer and the bread while Elijah monopolizes the cigarette; when it's nearly out he fumbles down between his legs on the step for the pack, crams another in his mouth and lights it with the end of the other. He flicks the butt out into the water, the coal streaking like a tiny comet before it falls with the faintest hiss.

" _Petit_ ," Orlando says softly. He presses himself to Viggo's side, but he crooks his finger at Elijah, and Elijah makes a face like he's just been poked in the eye.

"Yeah, what?"

"Don't you want to know?"

"Is there anything to know?" Dom interrupts, his eyes narrow. He chucks the heel of bread down the levee, and what appear to be sixty-seven thousand birds descend on it in a vast Hitchcockian cloud of squawks and feathers. "Have you managed to accomplish anything worth _piss_ , lately, Orlando?"

"I don't think you want to carry on that line of thought, Dominic." Orlando's fingers on Viggo's knee drum out a steady tattoo.

"Elijah-"

"Elijah can speak for himself."

Billy reaches around Elijah, touches Dom on the back of the neck. "Don't."

The river laps at the bottom stair. Viggo lights a cigarette and hands it to Orlando, then another for himself, busies himself with his camera in his lap. The roll is four frames short, but he rewinds it and reloads anyway, Orlando watching curiously.

"How do you-?"

"Like this-"

"Oh, I see. And then how-?"

"Feed the tab like this, and-"

"Right, right."

Viggo snaps the back of the camera closed, pushes in the screw and turns it. He advances, hits the shutter. Orlando jumps. "Did you just-?"

"No." Viggo advances again. "I'm just moving the frames forward, and anyway, the cap's still on." The shutter clicks again. Orlando shudders. "It's isn't really-"

"Right, all right." Orlando reaches for the camera, pulls his hand back at the last second, his smile disarming. "Just startled me, love."

"I'm sorry." Viggo lets the weight of the camera hang between his hands. "I didn't mean-"

"Yes." Elijah flicks his second butt out into the water, wriggles away from Billy and Dom. "Yes, tell me."

"Come here." Orlando pats the step.

Elijah nods, scootches and half crawls over to kneel between Orlando's knees. He makes a soft pained noise when Orlando tries to pull him down into his arms-"Ribs," he explains, and Orlando looks horrified until Elijah leans down and kisses him.

From his immediate proximity Viggo can see their tongues slip and slide together, their lips wet and shiny; he can see Elijah's fingers digging into Orlando's shoulders, Orlando's hands feather-light on Elijah's hips. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Dom and Billy hugging, Billy cupping the back of Dom's head, Dom's cheek on Billy's shoulder like a child. Viggo feels a brutal kick of jealousy land square in middle of his chest; it leaves behind a burning ache and a faint nausea.

Orlando breaks the kiss with a shake of his head, wipes his thumb over Elijah's mouth. Elijah flicks his tongue at Orlando's thumb, and Orlando laughs softly, brings Elijah's head back down. Viggo can only hear his first whispered words- _not like that, not anymore, darling_ -before Elijah turns his cheek away, presses his ear to Orlando's lips, listening.

The canister of film is cold in Viggo's palm and Elijah's cheeks are tracked with silvery tears when he tips back and away from Orlando; Orlando's eyes are bright but his jaw is set. Elijah nods, and holds out his hand. Viggo presses the film into his fingers and Elijah nods again, his teeth scraping over his lower lip for a moment while he clenches his fist.

"Do what you like with it," Viggo says; and hitches his shoulder. "I'll print them for you, if you want."

Elijah nods, then shakes his head just as fast. "I think I'll wait. I think. I. Thanks, man, I. You. Yeah."

He scrambles to his feet and stuffs the film in his pocket, balances there on the step between them for a moment: Billy and Dom on one side, Orlando and Viggo on the other. Orlando's hand comes to rest high inside Viggo's thigh, stroking along the seam of his jeans.

Dom twists in Billy's arms, looks up. "Lijah?"

Elijah nods at nothing, his hands shoved in his pockets. "You know. You know what we should do? We should get some coffee."

:::

They travel back to the warehouse in an amorphous clump, a trip that reminds Viggo of drunken college rambles, everybody pinballing between the pair of sidewalks, the random fire hydrants and trashcans. Billy and Dom take turns fussing over Elijah who takes it with more grace and less profanity than usual; Elijah keeps drifting into Orlando's side, and Orlando keeps smudging his lips on the top of Elijah's head. Viggo keeps fighting with the green thing wrapping sharp claws around his heart, until Orlando stops him in the orange circle of a street light, slides his tongue into Viggo's mouth and his hand down the back of Viggo's jeans.

"Stop," Orlando murmurs. "Stop worrying."

 _Easier said_ , Viggo plans to answer, but Orlando doesn't let him get the words out, and he is forced to admit, at least to himself, that Orlando makes a convincing case.

"Get a move on!" Dom shouts from somewhere down the block; Orlando laughs against Viggo's lips and tugs him along.

They re-establish collective equilibrium, Orlando with one hand in Viggo's, Elijah with a coffee in the one hand and the other around Billy's waist, Dom walking semi-sideways, semi-backward with his fingers tucked into Billy's belt. "I love you," Dom says to no-one in particular, and the three of them crash together for a moment before stumbling onward.

"Ah, forgot to tell ya. Livvie said she'd be back in a couple of days," Billy announces when the warehouse is in sight; he slips his arm around Dom's shoulders, draws him in.

Orlando frowns. "Where did she go?"

"Down to Pierre's," Elijah answers, and there's a pause, an almost audible shudder that passes through the three. Orlando sticks his tongue out like he's tasted something awful; Viggo cocks his head.

"Who's Pierre?"

"Fuckin' nutter, is who." Dom hawks and spits, his fingers twitching briefly into a pair of horns. "Lives down by Barataria. Big fat... swamp rat, he's a major voodoo guy. Fucking _terrifying_ , if you must know."

Orlando's still making like he licked a light socket when Viggo looks back at him; he snaps his mouth shut, forces a thin smile. "I don't like the bastard, but I can't stop her," he says finally. "She. She's entitled to her choices."

"She was gonna hitch down." Billy hops up onto the dock. "Said she didn't want to be around for-"

"For what?"

"Nothin'. Never you mind." Billy turns to the door, heaves it up and open. There is a screech of metal-on-metal, the echoing clang of the door reaching the top.

"William."

Billy freezes. The back of his neck looks absurdly exposed suddenly; Dom and Elijah stop halfway up the steps, clutching at each other's hips.

Orlando's fingers spasm around Viggo's, his hand is shaking and they can't see, none of them can see, all they know is Orlando's voice, steady and clear.

"She didn't want to be around for _what_?"

"The end," Billy answers. He comes back around slowly, his head still bowed. "For the end."

"There isn't one." Orlando's certainty rings out like a shot.

"Maybe not for-" Dom interrupts, and Elijah gives him a push, shakes his head.

"Don't, Dommie," he says softly.

Viggo's fingers are starting to tingle; he can hear Orlando's breath coming short. He wants to say something, anything, to diffuse this; to say fuck Livvie and her goddamn prophecy, fuck it all, _don't you know I want this_? The silence beats against his skin like the wings of a thousand moths.

He barely registers the movement until it's done and gone, Orlando lets go his hand, swings himself up onto the dock in front of Billy. Behind them the warehouse yawns wide, a great black maw; Orlando raises his hand and in the distance the fire roars to life.

Fuck prophecy. He doesn't believe in that shit anyway. Just like there's an explanation for everything, just like if he was to stop and work it all out, there's logic behind it, gotta look hard for it maybe, but it's there, he just never stopped to think before, and there's never been any such thing as magic, and the last several weeks have been cloudy with rum and lack of sleep and-

"Orlando-" Billy begins, but Orlando waves his hand again, a casual flick of two fingers. Thunder booms and lightning crashes, explodes the tree down the block into smoking pieces. The rain comes, hard and fast; the air is filled with the stink of creosote.

"Orlando-" Dom pleads; he moves to take a step up but Elijah grabs his arm.

Viggo blinks the rain out of his eyes, spits it out of his mouth, and shivers in the sudden cold. "Orlando," he whispers.

The lightning strikes on the train tracks.

Orlando lowers his hand, and kisses Billy on the cheek.

"Come on," he says, turns round with a shrug and a half-smile. Behind him Billy sags, his features slack with relief. Dom nods, Elijah grins; Viggo swallows hard and tries to remember how his lungs work.

Orlando shrugs again, beckons them toward the door. "C'mon, lads. Let's get dry and drunk, and in that order."

:::

The boys had flung their shirts off first thing, coming together in a messy tangle of hands and arms and tongues and necks, three shades of pale skin stained with freckles and tattoos and bruises. Orlando spit some rum out between his teeth, into the fire, and the flames had risen so high Viggo was sure the roof was going to catch. Elijah laughed and whooped and stomped his feet; he caught the bottle that Orlando threw his way, and pulled the cork with his teeth.

It isn't a particularly elegant dance, it barely qualifies as a dance at all; the boys shout and stamp, twist and shriek, their bodies bending and whirling and warping to a music that only they can hear. Elijah keeps up with the other two; only the one time stops and holds his side, showing his teeth in a grimace of pain. Orlando starts to come up out of his chair, but Elijah shakes his head, takes another mouthful of rum. It runs down his chin, mingles with the sweat that shines over the dark blooms on his ribs.

"All right, love?" Dom pauses, breathless; his face is grotesque seen through the flames.

"Keep it comin'," Elijah calls back. He throws back another slug for good measure, spits half of it into the flames. The fire roars up again. The boys howl.

Orlando sits with one leg slung up over the arm of his chair, cigar in his mouth; he's shed his shirt but put his coat back on. He crooks his finger at Viggo, and Viggo shakes his head, well-settled into his own boneless sprawl. Orlando grins, his lips form words, and Viggo looks down and away, blames his blush on the fire.

It's easy to believe the scene outside never happened at all; the rain is still hammering the roof, that's all. Viggo lets his head loll back, takes in the imagined rhythm of drums and voices, blows smoke rings at the ceiling. If he listens carefully he can almost hear the music, interlaced with the boys' shouts.

"Hey." Orlando kneels over him, cigar still between his lips. He settles against Viggo, rocks his erection down against Viggo's; they grunt together, and Orlando shows his teeth. "Hey."

"Hey," Viggo answers. He flicks his cigarette away, lets his hands light on the high sharp crests of Orlando's hipbones.

There's a bitter puff, and Orlando leans down for a kiss, pushes the smoke into Viggo's mouth. It rolls lazily with their tongues before escaping; Orlando's grin is delighted.

"It's, it's late," Orlando whispers against Viggo's cheek. "Come to bed with me, huh, won't you?"

Their hips grind together again, and Viggo nods, his fingers flexing on Orlando's skin. "Yeah, yeah," he says. "Yeah, of course I will."

:::

Orlando is warm and heavy against Viggo's back; he tries to suck in air from the narrow humid space between his face and the pillow, and finds none. When he tries to shrug Orlando off, Orlando makes an angry cat noise and shoves down, an ineffectual, token thrust. Viggo sighs. Orlando clings.

"I can't breathe, baby," he says, turns his face to the side. He reaches back blindly, grazes his knuckles over Orlando's flank.

"Sh, sorry." Orlando bites Viggo's shoulder, then kisses the spot as he twists himself free of Viggo's body. "Mm. Sh."

Sleep threatens almost immediately; he turns a bit more, and Orlando plasters himself along his back again, one hand tucked under Viggo's hip, the other coming round to rest over Viggo's heart. His lips tell nonsense to the curve of Viggo's neck.

"How late is it?" he asks finally, when exhaustion has settled on his chest like a stone, when he's counted a hundred of Orlando's heartbeats and a hundred of his breaths. How much time have we got?

"Very," Orlando mumbles. "Don't dare move."

"But-"

"I don't care. Don't move."

Viggo tries to shake his head, but only succeeds in scraping his beard across the pillowcase and making it itch. It's been days since he's shaved. He breathes in, the air damp with the reek of sweat and fucking, the pillowcase faint with fabric conditioner.

"Who makes the beds?" Viggo mumbles. He covers Orlando's hand on his chest with his own.

"Hm? The pixies, of course." Orlando's lips part wetly on the back Viggo's neck.

"Really."

"Yeah."

"The beds are always made, who makes them? Who does the wash?"

Orlando sighs. "The children take it in turns. There's a laundry up the way, it's. It's nothing, Viggo."

It's nothing. Of course. It makes perfect sense. Viggo yawns. "Okay."

"Years ago, when it was just _petit_ and I..." Orlando's voice is sleepy and fond. "We lived in that house. That house where we went, remember?"

"With the blue gate? With the garden?"

"Mmph. Mm-hmm. Yeah. Yeah. I made him do all the, um. The chores. He was so, so small then. He would take the huge basket of the wash, hm, to the place, and he would drink beers and do the washing."

Viggo feels Orlando's smile against his skin; it prompts one of his own in return. "And then?"

"Hmm. Then we'd go home and, we'd make our big bed and lay in it, and, and we'd watch the stars through the hole in the roof."

Orlando's arm tightens around Viggo's body, his breath speeds up for a moment before evening out. Viggo wants to ask more, wants to hear more, but his eyes close, and he dreams of stars.

:::

"Fuck fuck fucking _Orlando_ , no fuck-"

Elijah's voice, bordering on hysteria. Viggo struggles to find consciousness, sits bolt upright when he realizes what, and why.

"Orlando."

His smile is brittle, his breaths are shallow. Viggo reaches for him, sitting on the edge of the bed, brings his hand back at the last second when Elijah glares.

"Don't do this," Elijah pleads. He drops to his knees, helps Orlando shove his feet into his boots. "It's almost five-thirty, what are you, stupid?"

"Fell. Asleep." Orlando smiles back at Viggo again. "I didn't want to. Go. I didn't want-"

"I don't fucking care what you want!" Elijah yells. His eyes are bright with unshed tears.

"We're not having that old fight? Are we? I. I'm fine." Orlando shrugs into his shirt, gets it caught wadded up at his shoulders and Elijah wrestles it down over the ripple of his tattoo.

Viggo swallows, pulls the sheet over his lap. "Orlando?" His mouth is dry. The sky is pale grey.

"I said I'm _fine_." Orlando stands and sways; Elijah scrambles after him, grabbing Orlando's coat up off the floor.

"You're-"

"Ah! Elijah, just-"

"But you-"

"So, I-"

"And-"

"Stop-"

It's like coming in at the middle of a movie, which wouldn't be so bad, only the movie is in Farsi and the subtitles are Chinese. Viggo reaches out again. Every second counts. He doesn't know why, he just knows the truth of it, feels it sitting cold and pointy in the pit of his stomach. "I'm sorry," he says: to both of them, to himself.

Elijah spits. "Not your fault." He shakes Orlando's coat at him.

"No. Not." Orlando rounds the bed, leans down to press cold lips to Viggo's. "Love," he murmurs. "'S'okay. Promise."

"Your _fucking_ Highness, now is not the time to, to, laissez bon temp oh fuck, goddammit, Orlando-"

"I'm going," Orlando says, but his tongue is still slick against Viggo's. Viggo cups the back of his head, presses their foreheads together.

"Go."

"C'mon."

" _Go_."

At the bedroom door Elijah turns back, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'll go with, make sure, I mean, I'll. It'll be. It'll be."

Viggo nods, head in his hands. "Okay."

"Yeah. It'll be okay."

He wants very badly to believe it's so, but when Viggo falls back to the mattress, all he can think of is the ice in Orlando's last kiss. He doesn't sleep until the sun is high, until he hears Elijah return.

:::

He dreams of a ruined garden under a setting sun, a place once beautiful but now overrun with vines and weeds, the flowers a wild tangle amidst the briars and the brambles. Leading away to the west there is a cracked flagstone path framed by heavily drooping branches, hanging like the hands of aten, limned with gold.

On the east side of the garden it is dark, and there is a gate. An immense black bird perches on the gatepost, hopping just so from foot to foot. It cocks its head, snaps its beak, ruffles its feathers. Viggo watches the bird, feels the path stretching away behind him, feels the setting sun on the back of his neck. When he moves forward, leaves and twigs crunch and whisper underfoot; rocks and roots catch at his ankles, it seems like the ground is rising up to trip him. The bird screeches, spreads its wings, and flies into the dark.

He reaches for the latch and catches his hand on a thorn; when he touches the iron his fingers are bright and sticky with blood. Viggo lifts the latch, and opens the gate.

There is a soft sound like ripping cloth; he looks back over his shoulder just as the path, the trees, the garden, the sun, all shimmer and ripple for a moment before winking out.

He doesn't shock out of the dream, there's no gasp, no rictus, there's only a slow drift upward through the fear until his eyes flutter open on the real.

_This is the bed._

_This is the room, and the bed is in the room._

_This is the warehouse and the room is in the warehouse and the bed is in the room._

_This is the sun on my face, in the bed in the room in the warehouse in New Orleans._

Viggo breathes in, rolls to his feet.

_This is the bed._

He folds himself into his clothes, stumbles out into the main room, hugging his elbows. Jeudi is sleeping in one of the chairs, folded around her rag ball; when Viggo approaches she lifts her head, yawns with a curl of her tongue, and goes right back to sleep.

"Good, you're awake." Elijah calls from the bedroom. He beckons Viggo in with two fingers. "Hey, can we talk?"

He's folding laundry. Viggo stops just inside the door and stares at Elijah, who's pairing socks while the ash from the cigarette in his mouth flecks the pile of clothes in his lap. He's actually folding fucking laundry. Viggo makes a noise.

Elijah cocks his head. "C'mon, sit down, here." He shoves a heap of clothes to one side. "Plenty of room."

There is, of course, but Viggo rolls his shoulders, leans on the bedpost instead. "I'm okay." He stuffs his hands in his pockets.

Elijah takes his cigarette and taps ash in the dish balanced on the other side of him. "Billy would kill me if he knew I was smoking on the bed," he says, taking a long luxurious drag. "Ah."

"You, uh got a-"

"Sure, fuck, me and my fuckin' manners. Yeah." Elijah leans, holds out a mashed pack. Viggo retrieves one, and Elijah settles back, takes one for himself and lights it off the butt of the other.

"Listen." Elijah squints through the rising smoke, looks down at the socks he's holding, one white and one that may have once been white, and is now a pinkish grey. "About this morning."

Viggo snaps his Zippo shut, holds the first drag in until it starts to burn. "You know what's happening to him."

Elijah shakes his head. "Nothing's _happening_ to him. Orlando's..." He frowns, puts the white sock aside and fishes out another pinkish one. "Orlando is. Listen. I don't have any right to tell you things that he doesn't want to be told. Don't even ask, okay? He'll come to it in his own time, if he means to, and I think he does, so just-"

"You can't even tell me if he's all right?" Viggo knuckles his eye. "Give me a fucking break, kid."

In the harsh orange of the afternoon, it doesn't seem as terrifying as it did in the dawn, it doesn't seem as overwhelming and complex. It seems pretty simple.

"-fine, man," Elijah is saying, "and you don't have to believe me, okay, ask him yourself tonight, but I stayed until. I stayed for a while, and he's all right, Viggo, so don't be a fucking asshole."

Viggo shakes his head, teeth scraping over his tongue. "That. This morning, and the other day, at the hotel, that is not _all right_ -"

"What? What, he did this before?" Elijah jabs his cigarette out in the dish, it snaps and his fingers follow; the dish rocks and ash sprays onto the quilt. "Fucking hell. That fucking _idiot_."

Orlando's shaking hands, Orlando's cold kiss. Viggo closes his eyes.

"Why does-"

"I told you, don't ask me."

The bedpost is warm and smooth under Viggo's back; he shakes his head again, drops his own cigarette and steps on it. "Is this it?" he says quietly, his fingers ghosting over the high curve of the footboard. "Is this the bed the two of you used to share?"

Elijah's jaw works side to side. "No."

"No?"

"No. That's the one the two of _you_ share."

Viggo breathes in sharply through his nose; his fingers curl in on themselves as he draws his hand back. Elijah's telling the truth, he knows that with sudden, frigid certainty. He licks his lips.

"Look, I didn't-"

"Get out." Elijah starts to get up and he grabs at his side, his gasp thin and shocked. Viggo takes a step forward and Elijah throws up his hand. "No."

"Let me-"

"I said, get the fuck out of my home."

Viggo opens his mouth, but the rage in Elijah's eyes shuts it again. He nods once, and goes.

:::

He makes two stops before he gets a couple packs of smokes and the biggest coffee that they'll sell him, settles down on the steps to consume both in slow, measured tastes. He counts tourists and barges as they pass; he counts the cars on the river bridge, their paint flashing in the late afternoon sun. He watches a snake ripple lazily through the water; he watches a dog chase the gulls. He gives up his spot only to hike back to the café for a piss and another coffee, and when he gets back his warm patch of wood is still unoccupied.

His hands shake each time he lights another cigarette; he burns the side of his index finger and spends the next half hour sucking the wound. His beard still itches, his hair needs washing, and it occurs to Viggo that he must look like one of his subjects now. It would bother him, but no-one seems to see him; they come down the walk, down the stairs, and leave again, all without even a nod in his direction.

Fine. It's good. Gives him more time to think.

The horizon is the colour of rust when Orlando settles beside him, warm with the familiar smell of wool and rose. He runs his hand down Viggo's thigh, covers Viggo's hand with his own. Their fingers tangle and clench together.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, of course." Orlando's tone is light. "I-well. I'm sorry, if I scared you."

"You did." Viggo turns his head and Orlando's lips are just there. The kiss is more than half sigh. "You scared the fuck out of me."

"It's okay, love. It's okay." Orlando kisses Viggo's shoulder. "Elijah took care of me."

"Yeah." Viggo turns his eyes back to the river.

"Don't. Don't be like that, I won't tell you again." Orlando reaches around, takes Viggo by the chin.

"Let go."

Orlando relaxes his fingers, smoothes them up Viggo's cheek instead. "You insulted Elijah. Very very badly."

He nods, bites the inside of his cheek. "I'm sorry." He is. He is. Viggo swallows. "Listen, I-" He leans back, digs into his pocket. "I got the money for you. Here."

Orlando stares at the white bank envelope, his ringed finger poised over it for a beat as if he expects it to bite or burn. "Okay. Okay, thank-you." He stands, puts the envelope in his jeans, and holds his hand down. "Come on."

"Come where?" Viggo shrugs. "I don't want to go where I'm not wanted."

"Don't be stupid. Come home." He shakes his hand at Viggo. "What you say... the things you say... every word has weight, some words are sharp, they're like... like broken glass. It works into a wound instead of out, yeah?"

"Yeah." Viggo puts his hand in Orlando's, but he doesn't rise, not yet. "I-I feel bad about it, I just-"

"What you don't know don't hurt you." Orlando tugs on his arm. "Come home."

Viggo laughs. There is a bright note of hysteria in it. "Orlando-"

Orlando drops back down, shaking his head. "You are the most frustrating creature."

"This from you?"

"Well."

"Yeah."

Someone up on the promenade throws something into the river; it plonks heavily near the bottom of the steps. Viggo cracks his neck. "I want-"

"What?"

It comes out in a whispered rush, frantic words scratching his throat in their hurry to escape. "I want to, to tell Elijah I was wrong, and I'm sorry, and at the same time I don't, I. I don't know, I don't know anything and you won't tell me and you fucking _scare_ me in about six kinds of ways and I want to stay here, I want, I want _this_ , whatever it is, even the fucking terrifying parts, I want it, and I don't-"

Orlando's mouth crashes against his, all teeth for a moment before the kiss settles into something less like a battle, something more familiar. When they break for air, Orlando asks again.

"Come home."

A train whistle blows in the distance. Viggo swallows more than just spit. "Yeah. Okay. Home."

:::

The fire hums and crackles; there is a knot of dogs on the floor surrounding Elijah's chair. He looks up at the sound of the door, catches Orlando's eye for a moment and then looks back to his book.

Viggo hangs back while Orlando glides across the room; he drops onto the arm of the chair and wraps his arms around Elijah's shoulders, mumbles something in French to the top of Elijah's head. Elijah shrugs.

"What've I said, reading in this light, huh?" Orlando's voice is low and husky. "Shouldn't you light some candles?"

"I don't mind," Elijah answers. He leans his cheek on Orlando's arm. "I was just having a quiet night."

"Mm. What are you reading?" Orlando glances up, smiles at Viggo. He tilts his head, a _come closer_ gesture.

Viggo shakes his head, but he settles in the farthest chair: out of swinging distance, if not entirely safe, either. He deserves what he gets. He bites his tongue.

"Uh. Stephen King." Elijah lets the paperback fall closed over his fingers.

"That bloke writes such bollocks." Orlando tugs the book away, eyes flickering over the back cover. "I can't stand this shit."

Elijah's mouth twists, a grin forced to become a glower; he grabs the book back, mashes it facedown over his thigh. "Leave it. I like it."

"Okay." Orlando kisses Elijah's head again. "Where is everyone?"

"Out." Elijah looks to Viggo for second, his eyes narrow. "Someone's got to make a living around here."

"As fortune would have it, I agree." Orlando bends back slightly, shoves one hand into his pocket and draws out the envelope of money. "For you, _mon petit prince_. You have to share it with your subjects, of course. But-"

Elijah rips off one end of the envelope, shakes the bills out into his lap. His lips move as he counts, and recounts. "This is good." He taps the money back into a neat stack, tucks it back into the envelope. "This is really good."

"It's part of the deal." Orlando glances at Viggo again. "He keeps his promises."

The fire pops, throws sparks. Viggo starts.

"Thank-you." Elijah's chin goes up a fraction; his eyes are dark in the firelight.

"I. You're welcome. I. I'm sorry about-"

"No, don't-"

"Ah." Orlando holds up his hand. "No, no. No more."

Viggo drops back into the chair, fishes out a cigarette and lights it. He inhales, exhales heavily. "Sorry," he repeats, eyes on Orlando. He feels like a child, chastised and forced to feign friendship. The fuck of it is that he does like Elijah, and respects him even more than he likes him, but. But.

Elijah's sits limply in the circle of Orlando's arms; he doesn't respond to Orlando's petting, only stares at the fire, up at the ceiling, down at the snoring dogs. Orlando's eyes are soft with affection, his lips curved in a half-smile. Viggo takes another drag.

"I'm gonna read in bed," Elijah says abruptly; he pulls away from Orlando, nearly knocks him off the arm of the chair. "Sorry, I." He rolls his shoulders. "I don't think I'm much for company tonight."

Orlando reaches after him, but Elijah's already headed for the bedroom door; halfway there he whistles, and four dogs scramble after. Orlando shakes his head.

"You hurt him."

Viggo feels anger lick a hot stripe up his throat. "I apologized."

"But you still hurt him." Orlando drops into the empty seat, flexes grasping fingers at Viggo. "And you're so far. Come here."

"I don't know what to do," Viggo confesses. He sits forward, props his elbows on his knees, his chin in one hand. His cigarette burns away in the other. "I don't-I don't-"

"What?" Orlando rubs at his eye with his thumb. "You can talk to me. You can ask me anything. I told you that, again and again."

"But you never fucking _answer_." Viggo drops his cigarette, grinds it out with his heel. "And I never know any more than I did when I started."

Orlando looks down, licks his lips. "How much work do you have to do?"

"What?"

"The book, Viggo. How much work do you have to do?"

"Uh, well." He has lost count of all the pictures he's printed, of all the pages of notes he's taken. It's not counting the rolls he's developed but not printed, it's not counting the rolls still waiting.

 _The roll, still waiting_.

"I could use more time, I think." Viggo clears his throat. "I might, I mean, maybe another couple of weeks? A month?"

"You're lying." Orlando smiles. "You're fucking lying."

"I'm-" Lying. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

"Come here," Orlando commands again, his voice low. "Please."

Viggo gets up stiffly and makes his way across the space; Orlando doesn't wait, meets Viggo by the fire. He reaches up, smoothes his fingertips across Viggo's cheekbones, a gesture that's become both fond and familiar. Viggo bows his head into the touch.

"You're finished," Orlando says.

"Pretty much, yeah." Viggo closes his eyes. "The job... The job was never very hard, I wasn't. I wasn't supposed to."

"Get involved?"

"Yeah." He feels Orlando's hands swipe across his collarbone, one in each direction. His heart speeds up.

"Me too." Orlando's lips on his cheek. "Tell me again. How much longer?"

Viggo shrugs. "Say a week, if. I really just had to talk to the boys some more, and then. But. I don't know if they'll-"

"They gave their word."

A small cold rush of air; Orlando has stepped back. Viggo opens his eyes.

"Is it that simple? Why do you think it's that simple?" He puts his hand out to meet Orlando's; their fingers fold together, their palms kiss. "People... people lie, Orlando, people break their promises-"

"Not to me."

The fire swirls and throws sparks. Viggo shivers, shakes his head. "How the hell can you be so sure?"

"Because there are rules." Orlando lets go, spins away, his hands going to his head. "There are _rules_ , Viggo. There are things that just _are_."

"Why can't you explain, then?" Viggo moves forward, Orlando holds up one hand with a sharp jerk of his head. Viggo stops. "How the fuck am I supposed to follow your rules if I don't know what they are?"

"You know what they are. You were told."

He does. He was. "No," he says. "You didn't tell me all of them."

"That's the fucking irony, then, innit?" Orlando tugs at the lapels of his coat, hugs himself. "There are rules that apply to me, too."

"Orlando." Viggo lets his hands fall to his sides in defeat. "I don't. I don't understand, and I don't know if I ever will, and I don't know if you're just fucking with my head, or-"

"Do you believe me when I tell you I have never lied to you? Never. I don't. I can't."

"You can sure as hell omit."

"It's not the same. Don't be a child."

Viggo grits his teeth; his fists contract. He looks away.

"Why are you doing this?" Orlando says softly. "Why can't you just accept it, this is how it is? Why can't you just believe me?"

"I don't know what to believe. I don't _want_ to accept it. How." Viggo's mouth is dry, his throat is raw. "How can we, how can we _be_ , if... If we can't even-?"

Orlando drops down into a squat, rights a candle that has fallen. He hops around, moves several into a circle, head down, intent.

"Would you answer me?"

Orlando licks his ringed index finger, touches it to the wick of the candle on the far side of the little circle. It flares to life.

Viggo takes a step back.

Two, three, four. The flames burn blue. "There are things that just _are_ ," Orlando repeats. Five, six. "Do you remember what it was like to die?"

"I never forgot."

Seven. Eight.

"It's like that. Death, taxes... and rules."

Nine.

Thunder explodes nearby. Viggo tastes salt and copper; when he wipes at his lip his knuckles come away bloody.

"What-"

"Nine days." Orlando rotates his finger in a deliberate circle. The candle flames blaze higher. "You said a week, I say nine days. Did it ever occur to you that I might need the time, too?"

The apology is on the tip of Viggo's tongue, but Orlando moves before he can speak, up and over the circle of flame. His eyes are unadorned tonight, but blacker than ever.

"Agreed?" Orlando whispers against Viggo's mouth, his tongue swiping at Viggo's blood.

Viggo nods. "Agreed."

The flames go out.

:::

They don't fuck, they just press together in the dark, face-to-face and silent. Viggo drifts in and out of sleep; wakes more than once to the feel of Orlando's fingers stroking along his spine, to the warm puff of Orlando's breath on his shoulder.

The sky is still black when Orlando shakes Viggo's shoulder, crashes their mouths together hard enough to split Viggo's lip again. Orlando whimpers into it, his eyes bright in the darkness.

"Touch me," he mumbles. "Please. Like. Like that." He tugs at Viggo's hand, wriggles in his arms, and then Viggo understands.

First with his fingers, until Orlando is shuddering under him, until every muscle in his body seems to singing. Viggo will remember every line of the wings for the rest of his life, he is sure of it; he can trace them blind, and does, just to prove he can. Next with his mouth, licking hard over the high crests along Orlando's shoulder blades, tasting lightly over the smallest detailed feather. Orlando moans, his body drawing up taut; Viggo rocks with him, his mouth on Orlando's shoulder, his hands on Orlando's wrists.

They fall together. Viggo dreams of the whisper of feathers against his lips.

:::

"Goddamn-"

"Shh. Shh, you'll wake him."

"Orlando-"

" _Petit_. Help me with. Okay."

The light through Viggo's closed eyelids is dull and reddish.

"We have to _go_."

"Just-"

"No, now. Don't-"

"Please don't-"

"Jesusfuck."

Cool lips ghost over Viggo's forehead, over each cheek, finally ending in a kiss. He feels dizzy, even lying down.

"I love him."

The words come as if from a great distance, heavy and slow.

"Well, I love you more."

"I know, darling. Take. Take me home."

Footsteps. Silence. Viggo opens his eyes.

:::

He is half-dressed when Billy sticks his head in, hand over his eyes.

"Are you decent?"

Viggo yanks his shirt over head. "Close enough." He casts about for his socks, his boots; finds the former under the latter, shakes out the dust and dog hair. He drops down on the end of the bed to put them on.

"Going somewhere? So early?" Billy inquires in a pleasant voice. He leans his shoulder on the doorframe, casually blocking the way out, and crosses his arms.

"Am I not free to?" Viggo's laces creak in the grommets when he yanks them tighter.

"Every man's free to do what he likes." Billy pauses. "Even something stupid."

Viggo knots his bootlaces and stares at them; his stomach refuses to decide which way it wants to twist and so goes in three directions at once. His hands flex on his knees.

"Don't go after him," Billy says, voice low and firm, but not hard.

Viggo looks up. Billy is shaking his head.

"Don't," he says again. "If you. If you..."

"If I _what_?" Viggo demands, surges to his feet. "Man, I gotta tell you, I am getting a little fucking tired of people telling what I'm gonna do. I have free will. I have a _choice_."

Billy nods. "Aye. You have a choice."

"And right now, right? I." It sounds so ridiculous, it sounds fucking _crazy_ , it's- "I want to go and I. I want to know if my. If he. If." He drags his knuckles across his eye. "I want to _know_."

Billy doesn't answer but he doesn't move from the doorway either; Viggo knows he's bigger but he also knows how much effort it took to haul Billy away from Elijah the other night. He shifts from foot to foot, considering.

"Don't," Billy says again, this time with a heaviness in his voice, a weariness that Viggo's never heard from him. "If you go after him, then you prove us all right."

In the end, Billy doesn't have to stop him with his fists or his body, his words hit like a punch to the throat. Viggo sits down hard, nearly misses the end of the bed. "I don't know what to do," he whispers. His hands curl helplessly in his lap. "I don't know anything, I can't. I don't know what to do."

"What do you do? You wait and you trust." Billy's lips curve a fraction. "You come have a bit of brekkie with me, and you don't fuck this up."

:::

There are two cups of black coffee and four oranges and a hunk of French bread; Billy explains that if he gets to the store up the street just as it's opening, he can usually sweet talk the young woman clerk out of a few dollars worth of food.

"It's about the only place open at that hour, you see, but the boss doesn't get his fat arse out of bed until ten or so. Get in first thing, like, and Noelle helps me out." Billy throws strips of orange peel into the fire and they catch after a moment, filling the air with a bittersweet citrus smell.

"What about the money you make, from playing, from... working?" Viggo tears off a piece of bread, folds himself up tighter into Orlando's chair. He's hungrier than he thought; the vertigo is just out of reach, waiting for a sudden move.

"We do pretty good, don't we? For what we do, what we are. Dommie and I working together, with Elijah working the crowd? We can bring in hundreds a day." Billy shoves three sections of orange into his mouth, and juice runs down his chin as he chews.

"So where-"

"Does it go? We don't. Well, y'see, most of what we make singing or Livvie dancing or like that, we spend it on food. Drink. We like a wee dram now and then." Billy winks, and Viggo grins in spite of himself.

"And the rest?"

"What we steal?" Billy has no trouble naming it for what it is. "Orlando gives it away. He always carries enough to give to anyone who needs it. He, the night he met me. He shoved two hundred dollars in my hand without even blinking, told me to get a room for the night." Billy wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

Viggo nods. "You needed a place?"

"Aye, but he didn't know that." Billy purses his lips, regards the half of the orange in his hand. "Or, well. He did, but I didn't know how he could've. I. Well."

"He just knows things." Viggo wishes for a cigarette, but the pack is still by the bed. If he gets up now, he'll lose this, this moment, this insight. The image of Orlando and Elijah is still chewing at the back of his brain, but this is the most open Billy's ever been, and he did promise. Nine days to get what he needs. Finish the project, send it off and then-

And then.

"Orlando's not a seer, mind." Billy picks at the white fiber on the orange, his tone serious. "He's not like our Livvie. But yeah, he knows things. He knew why I'd come, and he knew... somehow he knew I'd run out of money, had to leave my hotel, see."

"Why did you come?"

Billy shrugs, his eyes hooded with memory. "It seemed like a good place to die."

Viggo nods. He doesn't prompt, he doesn't need to; Billy's shredding the orange in his hands but his voice is as strong as always.

"I had nothing? No family left, no work, I had nothing, and I sold everything, my little shite car and, and, and my guitar, and I thought I'd come someplace warm, someplace warm with plenty to drink. Glasgow's fucking cold, you know. Gets into your bones."

Billy looks up at the ceiling, at the high windows slanting dusty beams of light down onto their faces. His eyes are bright, his mouth almost smiling.

"So I came and I drank and I got warm, eh? And then I didn't die on schedule and I was in real bad shape, worse than I'd ever imagined, worse than-and then this fucking lunatic comes along and hugs me, in the middle of the street, he did."

"You told me." Viggo smiles, thinks of Orlando plopping down across from him in the restaurant that night, sprawling all over the table, helping himself to Viggo's wine.

"And I took his money, and I drank his rum," Billy murmurs. "We went and got a room and we drank until we couldn't stand, and then we drank until we couldn't crawl, and then we drank some more, couldn't seem to stop, and I remember. I remember I think I cried a wee bit, and I remember Orlando asking me if I'd had enough. I remember puking and pissing and wondering why it was taking so long to fucking _die_ already, and he asked me if I'd had enough yet."

The orange is a mess of pulp on the thigh of Billy's trousers.

"And finally I said yes. Yes. Enough."

There's no need for a camera. Viggo knows he'll remember the look in Billy's eyes for the rest of his life.

:::

Their talk turns to music, to travel, but exhaustion catches up with him and Viggo falls back into bed at midmorning, his sleep fitful in the heat of the day. He thinks he hears Elijah and Billy talking at some point, thinks he hears dogs barking, but when he gets up in the afternoon to go to the bathroom, the warehouse is empty.

He smokes a cigarette, rifles though the books in the boys' room. The ones that aren't stripped castoffs have faded drugstore stickers on the covers; there are mysteries, romances, spy novels, and the entire Stephen King oeuvre. He finally settles on a battered Dean Koontz thriller that utterly fails to thrill. Viggo is asleep again by chapter five.

If he dreams, he doesn't remember.

"Wake up."

Viggo shakes his head, makes a frustrated noise. "It's not morning."

"Thank god for that. Wake up."

Warm lips on his, and Viggo's eyes drift open, his sense of reality still blurry, but clear enough to know who it is, what is happening. Orlando's mouth tastes of coffee, a little sour but not unpleasant; Orlando's hands are rough and heavy against Viggo's cheeks.

"Hi," he breathes in between kisses. "Hey."

Orlando snarls a little, comes fully up onto the bed, his knees falling on either side of Viggo's hips. He pushes at Viggo's shoulders.

"This, off, off."

From sleeping to waking to _this_ in mere heartbeats; Viggo twists out of his shirt while Orlando shrugs one arm out of his coat, the other hand on Viggo's throat. He squeezes lightly, his thumb grazing over Viggo's windpipe. Viggo stares up at him, the light in the room hazy and dark pink.

"Wanted this all day," Orlando sighs. He changes hands, this time tilts Viggo's chin up with his thumb. His coat falls to the floor; his t-shirt is stuck to the planes of his chest with sweat. Viggo arches under him, tries to rise up but Orlando presses just so, just so.

"Take what you want," Viggo whispers. "I don't care, it's all yours anyway."

Orlando nods. "I mean to."

When they fuck Viggo feels like he's dying all over again, he can't get air, he can't move, all he can do is let it come, let it spiral deeper and deeper in his guts until the world unmakes itself behind his eyelids. White, red, black. Done.

:::

They doze in a sticky knot of limbs and sheets, one of Orlando's broad hands on Viggo's chest, his brush of his thumb keeping tempo with Viggo's heart. The sky is still a soft violet colour, their breaths come in whispered synchrony.

"What should we do?" Orlando asks in a waking moment, his skin golden in the candlelight. He stretches out along Viggo's side, walks his fingers up and down Viggo's arm. "Let's get a drink, let's get some food. We can go to the café for some beignets, and I can lick the sugar off your fingers."

"This is good, too." Viggo yawns. "And I don't have to get dressed for this, either."

So Orlando sits in his lap and feeds him the leftover oranges from the morning in between sticky sweet kisses and spicy cold shots of rum. They fuck again, knock over the candles with a misplaced foot, laugh in relief when nothing catches alight.

"This is good," Viggo repeats, on the edge of sleep, curled around Orlando, sharing his breath.

Orlando smiles, bumps their foreheads together. "Yes. Good."

He wakes again to find the place beside him empty and cold, sits up when he hears Elijah's voice through the thin wall. Orlando's voice comes next, and Viggo waits to hear someone else, anyone else, but there's only a long pause, then the creak of the bed, then Elijah's laughter, soft with delight.

It's coming up four. There isn't much time left.

Orlando slides in beside him, nudges him with hungry mouth and seeking hands. "-awake?" he mumbles.

"No," Viggo sighs.

Orlando laughs, licks his way back into Viggo's mouth, shoves and wriggles til he's half on top again, rocks his half-hard cock against Viggo's thigh. "I should go."

Viggo nods, then shakes his head. "I wish you wouldn't. I wish you didn't have to."

"I know, love, I know, I." Orlando presses his forehead to Viggo's shoulder; Viggo's hands clench on Orlando's hips. "But I must, and I. I promised Elijah. He's. I promised."

The cold slices through Viggo's belly, makes him shudder. Orlando's lips graze over Viggo's collarbone.

"-love-"

Viggo opens his mouth, but he can't get the word out.

:::

When next he wakes his head is throbbing, the light is thin and bluish.

"-about a half hour at best, please don't wait, I can't-"

"-fine, _petit_ , I'll be going. I'll be going."

"Okay. Okay, I'll see you soon."

"Yeah, soon."

Viggo raises his head in time to see the brief collide of lips, to see Elijah's smile as he turns to go. He falls back to the pillow with a thump; Orlando turns.

"I'm going. Go back to sleep." He crosses the room, touches Viggo's forehead, then leans down and kisses him. "Go back to sleep."

He nods. "Yeah," he agrees, but he props himself on his elbow to watch Orlando dress, to watch the play of Orlando's muscles as he moves. Orlando's wings seem to shimmer when he stretches his arms over his head before letting the shirt fall. He shrugs into his coat, straightens the lapels, smoothes a hand over the cap of stubble on his head.

"You're beautiful," Viggo says seriously.

Orlando smiles. "So are you."

Viggo holds out his hand, and Orlando shakes his head. "No more tempting me, love, I have. I have to go."

And there's nothing more to say, is there? Viggo swallows hard as Orlando's coattails disappear. He swings his feet to the floor, and grabs for his jeans.

:::

The first stab of dizziness cuts through Viggo's head some six or eight blocks down Royal, makes his vision swim and his gut heave. He stumbles, refocuses on the spot of red ahead of him. The morning is humid but clear, it seems the sky is lightening at the same pace as the pound of his pulse. He leans on a gate, sucks in air through his nose, grits his teeth.

It'll pass. It has to pass. Viggo spits bile, and keeps following.

On the other side of Esplanade the vertigo slams him again and he nearly goes down, the pavement spinning away from beneath his feet, his head throbbing with dizziness and pain. He can still see Orlando, Orlando walking faster now, Orlando turning a corner. The blood is rushing in Viggo's ears, his whole body wracked with tremors, but he fights it, goddammit, he fights. One foot in front of the other.

It was night when they last traced this path, and Viggo had not marked the turns or the signs, he does not know the names of the streets or even the exact neighbourhood, but the set of Orlando's shoulders is a simple enough to follow, the claret of his coat bright in the rising glow of dawn.

Turn. Two blocks. Turn. Three. Turn one. Turn two. Viggo trips and staggers, falls against a tree. For a moment he rests there, pressing his cheek to the cool rough bark, eyes closed.

Soft humming floats back to him on the heavy air.

 _Orlando_.

He follows.

And there is a moment, a long breathless pause after he finds himself face to face with the blue carriage gate, when he considers going no farther. When he remembers vows made and promises given, when the dizziness recedes and a cold clarity seeps through his brain.

_This is wrong. You have a choice, and this is wrong._

Viggo's fingers close over the rusted latch.

The hinges howl when he lifts and pushes, and he can't help thinking of the story, of the girl sent by her stepmother to the witch's house, how the gate shrieked out and she put butter on the hinges. In repayment for her kindness, he remembers, when it came time to escape, the gate let her go.

The rust mingles with the sweat on his palms, makes his hands look washed in blood. He wipes them on his jeans.

"Orlando!"

Viggo stumbles into the courtyard, and falls to his knees.

 _No_.

The word forms on both their lips at the same moment, their eyes locked together for a breath, a heartbeat, forever. The anguish on Orlando's face is shattering; Viggo goes forward onto his hands, tries to crawl but the pain, the dizziness is too much.

Orlando's hands come up to cover his face, long fingers splayed out over his brow, his lips parting on a sob. His wings spread and flap, enormous and ink-coloured, blocking out the rising sun.

"Orlando," Viggo cries. He reaches out, for Orlando's boot, Orlando's ankle, something, _anything_.

His fingers close on stone.

:::

The burn of sun along his back brings Viggo out of his daze, a state of not-quite sleeping, not-quite fainting. He smells roses, feels petals and leaves are crushed beneath his cheek. He is clutching at something cold.

Something cold.

Cold.

Viggo pushes halfway up onto his hands and knees and retches emptily, his body wrenched by spasms, his eyeballs feeling like they're about to burst. Nothing comes up but spit and acid; he collapses again, rolls onto his back.

He remembers going to the Louvre as a boy, clutching his mother's fingers as they walked through the ringing marble halls. He remembers her offering to pick him up when they started up the stairs, the steps too steep for his six-year-old legs, but he refused, and manfully struggled upward.

The Nike seemed to be descending before his very eyes, her wings up-thrust by an unseen wind, her dress clinging to the curves of her form. She was golden light trapped in stone, she was goddess incarnate, and she was the most beautiful thing Viggo had ever seen.

He wonders if she would now seem a mere bit of plaster in comparison.

Orlando's coat is laid gently on the cracked pedestal at his feet, and the wool is hot to the touch from the sun; all else is flawlessly translated to stone. His boots, even to their buckles, the fine stitching along the soles. His jeans, riding low as ever, show a bit of hipbone: he was turned just so when the change came, his shirt had twisted up with the movement.

_The wings._

Viggo knows that if he gets up and goes round behind, behind-the statue-no-behind _Orlando_ , he will see that they are not ink and scar, but- _stone_ -blood and bone pushing up out of the skin, he will see the joints and the sinews, each as finely made as the lines of ink he is so familiar with. He could do. He could get up, and put his hands on the stone, and inspect every detail, he could touch the impossible made real.

He could.

Orlando's hands are frozen over his eyes, his head bowed in grief. The beloved curve of his skull, the delicate sweep of his thumbs, the part of his mouth; they are all illuminated by the morning sun, making stone seem almost, almost, like flesh.

Viggo pillows his head on Orlando's coat and weeps.

:::

The flutter of wings wakes him, a sound both familiar and foreign at once. There is a quickening in the limbs above him; there is deep, certain breath, like the working of a bellows. There is the sound of a boot on flagstone.

Orlando's cheeks are bright with tears in the purple twilight. Viggo goes to his knees.

"I love you," he whispers, voice dust-dry. His own tears are spent. He holds his hands out in supplication.

Orlando works his wings, settles into a crouch with them half-spread for balance; he doesn't speak when he pulls his coat away from Viggo and settles it across his thighs.

What is there to say? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I fucked up, forgive me. I love you, forgive me.

"Forgive me."

Another beat of wings, and the roses and bougainvillea shudder on their vines. Orlando nods, his head cocked to one side, but he does not meet Viggo's eyes.

"I told you there were rules," he says at last. There is a deep basso note of regret in his voice, it rumbles and quivers. "I told you, and you promised."

It isn't the first broken promise, either. Viggo nods, suddenly desperate to make up for it, to salvage as much as he can, cramming words in the wound like a dressing. "I'm sorry, I. I didn't, I don't, I don't know what I was, I was thinking, I, I'm sorry, Orlando, I don't _care_ , I don't care what, who, what you are, it doesn't matter, I love you."

At that Orlando flinches, finally looks up. He shakes his head. "You don't care... _what_ I am?"

"No!"

"You don't care what... thing... I am."

"No, I didn't mean it, like that, not like that, I-"

Orlando swallows. His wings beat again. Leaves and twigs skitter across the flags.

"Once you'd done what you said you meant to. Once you'd kept your word... I would've told you. I would've shown you, I would've told you everything."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that." Orlando's voice is like a slap. Viggo covers his face with one hand.

"I'm-I. You don't have to explain." He shakes his head, wants to reach out, grab Orlando, shake him, make him understand. "It's, I. I love you. Nothing else _matters_."

"Of course it does." Orlando surges to his feet, and his wings spread even farther, seem to fill the courtyard. "Of course it fucking _matters_ , Viggo, this isn't. It's not. You can't have happily ever after when you break the rules, it's just, I."

"What? You what, if you were going to tell me anyway, tell me now!" Viggo scrambles up, takes a step toward Orlando and finds himself shoved back so hard he nearly falls. Orlando hasn't raised a hand.

"I am all that I am," Orlando says softly. "And I am bound by laws, yes, and rules. And you... you couldn't see to see. Do you love me so little that you were willing to risk it all over petty human curiosity?"

"I thought you were going to. I thought." It is even pettier than Orlando suspects. Viggo looks away.

"Tell me what you thought."

"I thought. I thought you were going from me to. To another lover. To. To-"

"To who? No, no. Don't say, I don't want to know how low your opinion really is of me."

The rage in Orlando's voice is leashed tight, but it still bites, it still tears. Viggo wishes he could get angry in reply, wishes he had even the illusion of indignation to foster his defense.

"I'm sorry." It's all he has left.

In the silence that follows Viggo can hear cars on the street, can hear night birds twittering high above. He can hear a dog barking in the distance.

"Come," Orlando sighs. "Come here."

Viggo lowers his head, breathes in and holds it as he closes the space between them. Orlando drops his coat to one side, brings his hands up to frame Viggo's face for a kiss.

Hot sweet slide of tongue on tongue for a moment, then the desperation seeps in, all the anger, all the sorrow. Their teeth clash, their lips tear; Viggo tastes salt and blood and spit. His hands drift up Orlando's back of their own volition, skate over the shredded remains of Orlando's t-shirt, then seeking, then finding. Orlando groans and shudders; his wing ruffles and beats under Viggo's hand.

"Oh." The feathers are silky smooth and vibrantly alive. He runs his knuckle over the ridge of bone, and Orlando whimpers. "I love you," he snarls against Orlando's mouth. "I fucking love you."

"I know," Orlando grunts back. "I know, I love you, I know, I. Viggo. Viggo."

He gently pulls Viggo's hands away, grips his wrists for a moment before letting go. He lays his palm along Viggo's cheek.

"Remember," Orlando murmurs. "Remember I asked you if you would do one thing for me, just one thing, and our deal would be done?"

Viggo nods. "I remember."

Orlando nods back. "Yeah." He kisses Viggo again; his wings settle down to two dark curves behind his shoulders. "Yeah, I need that now, love, I need you to do that one thing for me."

"Anything. Anything I can, I will."

Orlando brushes his thumbs over Viggo's eyes, brushes his lips over Viggo's mouth. " _Forget_."

:::

Someone's at the door.

Someone's at the door, knocking, no, pounding, rattling the thing in its frame. Viggo pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes, wonders who the fuck it could be at - he squints at his watch - seven in the friggin morning when he's-

not in L.A.

not in New York

not in London

"Open the goddamned door!"

-in serious fucking shit.

Viggo rolls to his feet, staggers toward the hotel room door; he trips over his untied bootlaces. Must've sacked out still dressed.

"-fucking minute, Jesus-"

"-gonna fucking kill you-"

He jerks the chain off, turns the handle just as the person on the other side gives the door another solid wallop. The door flies back into Viggo's face, hits him hard enough to make his eyes water.

"Fuck. Bean."

"Jesus buggering Christ, Viggo."

Sean stops short just inside the door, his face as white as his shirt, his hands still balled into fists. Viggo wipes the back of his wrist across his eyes.

"What the hell are you-?" he spits. "You didn't seriously-?"

"You're bloody well right I did," Sean snarls. "It's been more than two weeks, you arse, it's been me climbing a fuckin' tree, all right? You don't ring me back, the hotel tells me you go missing for days on end, you've either got a Pulitzer waiting to happen or something is fucking _wrong_."

Viggo rubs his eyes again, backs up until his legs hit the side of the bed. "I'm fine."

"Of course you are." Sean kicks the door shut behind him, crosses to flop into the chair in the corner. "You're fine, haven't done anything arsehole crazy, and I'm the Prince of bloody Wales. Can I smoke in here?" He doesn't wait for an answer; he's already shaking the cigarette out of the pack and into his mouth. His lighter flashes. "So before I put you on the plane, what the fuck is going on?"

What the fuck is going on. What the fuck-

Viggo sits down on the end of the, rubs at the grit in his eyes. His stubble is starting to soften into a beard; his wrists look bony and brittle. "What day is it?"

"Jesus Christ." It's not really disgust in Sean's voice, no. It's fear. "It's the twelfth of May."

"That can't be." He turns his watch around, and the number inset in the face confirms Bean's statement. "It was the night of the eighth. The morning of the ninth, it was." Viggo bows his head, presses his thumb hard between his eyes. "And we had an argument. I don't remember what about, but. I don't remember."

"We who?" Sean looks around, shrugs and taps ash on the floor. "Wait, no. Don't tell me. He was an angel straight out of Caravaggio, glorious in his youthful perfection, with big brown eyes and lips that could suck chrome from a bumper. Is that about right?"

Viggo shakes his head. "It isn't-wasn't-it. It's not like that." It isn't. It wasn't. It was-

Something else.

"What is it like, then? Please, enlighten me. Our flight leaves in-" Sean tilts his own wrist. "-five hours, you can take all you want of those pregnant pauses you like so much."

"I'm not leaving."

"I'm not offering it as a choice."

"I have a fucking choice," Viggo snaps; he starts to rise but he drops back down almost immediately, a wave of dizziness, of déjà vu washing over him. "I'm not going, not yet, I'm not. I'm not done."

Sean blinks, regards his cigarette for a moment before he gets up and crosses the room to stub it out in the ashtray. He licks his lips, puts another cigarette in his mouth and picks up the ashtray, takes it back to the chair with him. His lighter flashes again.

"Tell me I'm wrong, Viggo," he says at last, smoke curling up around his head. His voice is low and clear. "Tell me it wasn't a boy, _again_ , tell me you've not been wading out of your depth, _again_. Tell me I don't see your denims falling off your already narrow arse, your eyes black like bloody raccoons, tell me. Tell me I'm wrong, and I'll leave you in peace."

Viggo props his head in his hands, feels the sick burn of tears in the back of his throat.

"I see." Sean's tone is not unkind. "Don't think I don't sympathize. I like girls who try and bankrupt me. You like boys that try and get you killed."

"It wasn't like that," Viggo insists. "He was. He was one of them, the street kids-"

"Of course."

"-and he was English, actually, and he was-"

He was the king.

"Perfect? Sublime? He loved you? What happened?"

"I don't remember."

He doesn't _remember_. Viggo stands, more steady this time, crosses the room to throw open the balcony doors. Canal Place is loud and busy below, the sun shining bright on the muddy river.

"If you can't remember, then your arguments about what it was or wasn't like become rather less compelling."

"Shut up for a minute, fuck, Sean, I mean, I can't-" When he squints, when he shades his eyes, he imagines he can see Jackson Square from here. Impossible, of course. He braces his arms in the doorway. "What I don't remember is what went wrong," he says softly. "We fought. I think. I think it was about someone, someone else? I can't. We did a lot of hard drinking. Twenty year old kids, putting me under the table, I mean, I."

"Go on."

Viggo closes his eyes. He can recall smiles and touches, he can recall fucking and sleeping and waking. He can recall conversations and places, although time gives him trouble. Was it only these few weeks? Wasn't it longer? Wasn't it forever?

"His name is Orlando," Viggo says. "And I. Yeah, I guess I fell."

Sean is silent behind him, breaking the still with only the occasional smack of his lips on the cigarette filter.

He considers how much more to say, things like, _still love him_ and i _mplicit accomplice in a triple homicide_ and _never be able to taste rum again without crying_. He considers the buildings, bright and crayon-coloured, the river and its voluptuous curve. He remembers sitting on the stairs once, pressed thigh-to-thigh with Orlando, and thinking that there might be some way that there could be something. Something more.

"And it ended badly," Sean prompts at last.

The sun burns down on Viggo's face. There are pages torn out of the book of his memory, but there some things he is still sure of. "I broke a promise," he says, turning from the doors. The canister of film is on the nightstand where he left it; he strides across the room and scoops it up, shoves it into his pocket. "So it doesn't matter now."

Sean rises, crushes his cigarette out. "What are you on about?"

Viggo scrubs his hands over his face. "There's just one thing I have to do before I go."

:::

At the camera shop they offer Viggo the darkroom, and he waves it off, says he trusts them. "My flight's leaving around noon, can you put a rush on it?"

"Sure, hon," Allie says. "You want just the contact sheets or print 'em or what?"

"Print everything."

Sean is smoking outside, pacing and sweating. "Fuck, no wonder you're so thin," he grunts when Viggo re-emerges.

"What?"

"You've been melting for the last two months. Jesus Christ." Sean pinches the front of his shirt, pulls it away from his body. "I need air conditioning and a Bloody Mary, in that order, and since it was you who dragged me here from civilization, you will make that happen."

Viggo can't help grinning. "Yeah, I. I think I can make that happen."

They find a restaurant serving brunch, wave off the menu in favor of drinks and an ashtray. Sean doesn't try to force conversation, and Viggo is grateful. The silence feels easy. He feels almost like he's real again.

"What's this film, then?" Sean asks as they walk back to the camera shop. "It could've waited."

Viggo shakes his head. "It's... I need these pictures, to prove." To prove it was real? To prove it was worth it? "It doesn't matter, I guess, I guess it could've waited, I just needed. To do this."

There is no answer from Sean, but when Viggo looks over, he's nodding.

He pays for the pictures, waits 'til they are outside again before opening the folder. Allie has put the contact sheet on top, and Viggo squints at it, disbelieving. The memory clips him in the knees: standing in the rain, staring at an empty lot where there should be a building. He flips to the first shot, in his hurry not noticing the final frame on the sheet.

Nothing. There's nothing there. Rusted oil drums, tangles of weeds. He'd shot at night, he remembers, and here's the street sign on the corner, and here's the railroad tracks, and here's the tree. He flips back to the warehouse, to the _lack_ of warehouse. Nothing.

"Forgive my pointing out the obvious, Viggo, but I don't see anything in these pictures." Sean points with his cigarette. "Although that is a nice tree."

"Yeah." Viggo swallows hard. "Yeah, I guess this isn't, uh. The roll I thought it was." He pages through the prints again, going all the way through to the back of the folder this time.

The photographs flutter to the ground.

"Fucking hell, are you-what the fuck-"

Sean scrambles around, snatching up the prints, the envelope of negatives. People stop and grab at the pictures, blowing lazily down the banquette; they hand them back with murmured apologies, as if it were their fault. _Thanks, thanks_ , Sean mumbles. Viggo sags against the side of the building.

"Fucking-oh. Oh."

Oh.

It is a grainy black and white photograph of a young man asleep, of the long muscular curve of his back, of the intricate tattoo on his shoulders and the soft lines of his profile, pillowed on folded arms. In Viggo's mind he can fill in just how the candlelight played across Orlando's skin, just how the sheet lay across his thighs, just how his fingers twitched a bit with dreaming.

Sean tucks the photos back into the folder, his face unreadable. He shakes his head.

" _What_ ," Viggo spits.

"Nothing," Sean answers. He holds out the folder. "Just. I think maybe now I understand."

:::

They are mere steps up Decatur when Viggo spots him; his heart thunders into his throat as he skids to a stop. He shoves the pictures at Sean. "Go on, I'll catch you up."

"Like hell you will."

Viggo crosses the street nearly at a run, vaguely aware of Sean behind him. He can just see the small dark head bopping through the early crush of tourists on the riverwalk; he curses and plunges after.

"Elijah!"

The boy freezes.

"Elijah."

He turns, a single self-contained pivot on his toes, his thumbs hooked into his belt loops. He cocks his head. "Yeah?"

Viggo doesn't have the first clue what to say. "I. I didn't expect, I mean, I thought, I don't. I."

Elijah bites his lip. "You know I kinda liked you, for a while there."

"Yeah." Viggo nods. He stuffs his own hands into his pockets. "Does he-"

"What? Does he what?" Elijah's eyes narrow. "Look, man, it doesn't matter. You can't see him anymore."

"But-"

"No. I get there's a lot you don't understand, and I feel fucking sorry for you, okay, but, get it, get it good: you can't. See him. Anymore."

Viggo thinks of the pictures, of the place where a building should have been, and his gut turns to ice. He opens his mouth to reply, but Elijah shakes his head.

"Don't," Elijah whispers. "Don't try. Don't ask. Just... go." He rises up on his toes, brushes his lips across Viggo's cheek. "Just go."

He smiles once as he backs up, and then Elijah turns and disappears into the crowd.

"What the fuck was that about?" Bean snaps.

Viggo touches his cheek, rubs his thumb over the cold place there. "Goodbye. It was about goodbye."

:::

_June 2001_

Viggo returns to New Orleans without Sean's blessing and with a promise that if he doesn't present himself at Kennedy in New York three days hence, Sean will be coming after him.

"With the fucking FBI and the CIA and Interpol and the fucking _Mounties_ , Viggo, do you understand me? That city does bloody weird shit to your head."

At the city library he types _King of New Orleans_ into their search engine and only gets hits about some rock band; when he asks for help at the reference desk they look at him like he has three heads. One librarian licks her lips nervously, looks away when Viggo repeats his request.

"It's a story, I heard in the Quarter, uh. The King of New Orleans. Nobody's heard this?"

The woman shrugs crookedly. "I haven't, but. But you go on to the Historical Society, maybe Claire Juneau can help you."

Claire Juneau seems a sensible woman, looks like a soccer mom with her khakis and golf shirt and swinging ponytail, but she turns white when Viggo asks after the story of the King. "They said at the library-" he begins, but she cuts him off.

"It's not really my area, Mr Mortensen, I'm sorry. I mean, yes, local legends, but no, I mean. Well. There's really only one person who can help you."

He grinds his teeth together. "Yes?"

"If you can get in to see her, of course, she's ninety-three, you know, Mrs Beauchamp, Lauren Beauchamp. She. Well, it doesn't matter. I'll give you the address, she'll either talk to you or she won't, but she's. She's the one."

:::

He is shown to the solarium door of a sprawling Garden District mansion, the starched white nurse who'd met him at the door pursing her lips with disapproval.

"I said show the man in, Luanne, don't make me fire you again."

Mrs Beauchamp sits propped in a wicker chair surrounded by flowers, her thin fingers weighted with rings as they wrap around the head of an ebony cane. She waves Viggo in, her face and hand alike shaking with some kind of tremor, but her eyes are shrewd and bright.

"Come, come. Sit down." She points to the chair drawn up close to her own. "You want to hear about the King."

"It's for a book," Viggo mumbles, suddenly shy. "I. I can show you my credentials."

She laughs. "As if I need any reason to talk about the King! Now you listen, boy, it's been a damn long time since anybody asked my opinion about anything at all." She reaches for a decanter on the table, sloshes two tumblers full of vodka and passes one to Viggo. "But I always liked stories, and this one in particular. I was something of a, an amateur folklorist. Back when such things were in fashion, dear."

"You're a native, then."

Mrs Beauchamp laughs again. "Born and raised and I mean to die here, right here. They'll take me feet first out of this house."

Viggo inclines his head. "Not any day soon, ma'am."

"Aren't you sweet? Well, why don't we get onto it, Mister-"

"Mortensen. Viggo Mortensen."

"A Dane, then you'll know all about fairy tales."

"Some." He shrugs, tells the lie he has constructed. "I was drinking in a Cajun bar on Royal Street when I heard it first. Just a mention of the name. That's all I've ever heard, actually, the name, and. That he helps the poor. People talk about this king as if he's real."

Mrs Beauchamp takes a long sip of her drink. "Well, of course he isn't. But. Best to start at the beginning. Do you know anything about the War of 1812, Mr Mortensen?"

He grins and shakes his head. "Only what I learned in grammar school, and that was a few years ago."

Mrs Beauchamp raises one manicured eyebrow. "So young to be forgetting things, sir."

He laughs. "I know it ended here. In... 1814? But I know that from the song, not from school."

She chuckles as well. "Oh, that horrible song. Well, yes. The Battle of New Orleans was a series of skirmishes that lasted several weeks, ending with one major battle in January of 1815. The British forces were all but wiped out, but not just by General Jackson, mind, but by a rabble of Indians, _gens de couleur_ , Cajuns, even Lafitte's pirates from Barataria Bay. The battle took place down the bayou, in what's Chalmette now, and when it was done even the British general had been killed."

Viggo nods. "All right."

"Now the Baratarians were still pirates at the end of the day, and after the battle was won a small group of them took hostages, nine young officers, thinking they might be worth good ransom. All of them were wounded, but they figured they could keep 'em alive long enough to collect a little gold. They brought those boys back here, to New Orleans proper, to the house of a priest. They asked him, the priest, to write letters to their families to demand ransom. There was only one problem - to a man, they all refused to give up their names. So the pirates left them in the courtyard there, day after day, suffering from their wounds, and each night coming back to ask again. And as the days went on, the young men started to die."

Mrs Beauchamp pauses, takes another drink and makes an exaggerated _Ah!_ sound. "Not supposed to be drinking," she confides with a wink. Viggo grins back.

"I won't tell."

"Oh, fuck 'em if you do. So. The story goes that they raised the flagstones and dug a shallow grave; the ground was unconsecrated, but the British soldiers weren't Catholic, so their souls were already lost, of course. They buried eight of the nine hostages, there under the stones. The ninth body went missing - dogs or gators, probably. It happened." She flaps one hand dismissively. "Now the père felt guilty about all this, and in the night had a block set to mark the grave, and he blessed the ground. This much we know from a letter he wrote to another priest upriver."

She refreshes her drink, her many rings clacking against the bottle, and then against glass. The tremors seem to have gotten worse - Viggo puts his own glass down and reaches to help her, but she waves him away.

"What nobody knows is who put up the statue that appeared in the morning. They say it was the most perfect angel you ever saw. There is a drawing; I saw it when I was a girl, and it's been lost, but. It was that drawing that piqued my interest. Oh, he was beautiful. His eyes... and his wings... Exquisite. A few years later the stories began. They said the angel disappeared at night and came back in the morning. They said the angel was seen walking around the city at night. They said a lot of things, every one more ridiculous as time went on." Mrs Beauchamp smiles, the corners of her eyes creasing; some of her face powder crumbles and falls away, unnoticed, to fleck the front of her blouse.

"Like what?" Viggo prompts.

"Like that angel wasn't a statue at all, but that he was that ninth officer. That he done a deal with heaven or hell or something in between... I don't know. Now, you asked about that name, why the King of New Orleans. That British general, the one killed in the battle? They were so smug, those British. They were so sure they were going to win that they'd named that general as Governor of Louisiana. Père Michel's letter, the one where he describes setting the stone? He tells how one of the officers - now, I have their names somewhere, had to do a bit of digging, but I sifted it out - but one of the officers, I believe it was probably the young captain, tried to bargain for their lives toward the end. And what I imagine he was trying to say was, _We are officers of the king, and of the governor of New Orleans._ But his French wasn't so good. It came out, _Nous sont officeirs à la gouverneur et le Roi de New Orleans_."

Viggo nods politely, but his heart is hammering in his chest. "Do you mind if I smoke, Mrs Beauchamp?"

"'Course not, dear, light one for me, too."

He imagines she is not supposed to smoke either, but he can't help smiling when he passes her the lit cigarette. She inhales with obvious ecstasy.

"Where was I? Oh yes. So when the pirates heard _that_... oh. Oh, they kicked those boys around something fierce, wounded or not. King of New Orleans. Hah." She snorts indelicately. "Anyway, I think that's where it came from, someone heard about that, mashed it all together with the story of the statue. The King of New Orleans is the one that looks after the abandoned, the wretched, the children in the gutter. But you've heard all that part, or you wouldn't be asking."

The smoke burns the back of his throat. He picks up his drink again.

"But it's gone now, Mr Mortensen. That statue, that stone is long gone. I have looked. Every place anybody said it might be, I have looked. And everybody's forgotten nearly everything about the story, except for a whole lot of bullshit about a boy angel in a British officer's coat, walking around the Quarter granting wishes to the poor. My dear, look what you've done."

Viggo stares down at the shards of his glass, at the blood dripping from his fingers. The old woman produces a voluminous handkerchief, presses it into his palm.

"I'm so sorry-"

"Just press on it, press on it-Luanne! Luanne!" Mrs Beauchamp clangs her bell; the nurse comes running a moment later. Viggo feels dizzy. The handkerchief turns red.


End file.
